


Knights of Bright Renown

by 3scoremiles10



Series: Robin of Sherwood [10]
Category: Robin of Sherwood
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Drama, Gen, Original Character(s), Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-11 03:23:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 29,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5612122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3scoremiles10/pseuds/3scoremiles10
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Old friends are the worst kind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Knights of Bright Renown

**Knights of Bright Renown**

_“If anyone says ‘I love God” yet hates his brother, he is a liar.” ~ 1 John 4:20_

 

Will was not happy. His hands were cold, his feet were numb, and his arse was aching from the hard, wet tree root on which he sat. He shifted uncomfortably and wondered what in hell’s name he was doing out here. He could think of at least half a dozen things he’d rather be doing than this, and most of them involved a warm fire, a willing girl, and a brimming jug of mead. Winters in Sherwood were not, in Will’s experience, good for much else. Game was scarce, comfort fleeting – Will had not had dry boots in three days – and the roads were remarkably empty. It made for frayed tempers and boredom. Will, who was easily bored and whose temper was a ragged thing at the best of times, hunkered deeper into his rough deer hide cloak and scowled at the wet and dripping branches overhead.

“Bloody Robin. Got us out watching every fucking road through Sherwood, all on the off chance some old mate of his might wander through.” Will snorted, unimpressed, and turned a demanding gaze on his black-clad companion. Nasir was crouched comfortably against the low crook of a thick-boled oak tree, swathed against the cold in some exotic wrapping that covered his head and half hid his face, making him look even more darkly dangerous than usual. Will, used to his Saracen friend looking like half a threat even in his sleep, was not put off. “Well, come on then. You’d know. Robin tells you what he’s up to. What’s this about? And where’s Robin getting his information from, anyway?”

Nasir shrugged, idly flicking one of his knives through his fingers in patterns that made Will wince. He answered with his usual economy. “Not Rob’s friend; his father’s.”

“Nice.” Will kicked at the frozen ground, trying to warm his toes in his damp boots. “We huddle out here in the sodding snow so that Robin can exchange fucking pleasantries with some old prick his father used to know.” Scarlet made a face, twisting his voice to echo Robin’s well-bred accent. “‘Show him some courtesy’, he says, like we was raised by fucking wolves.”

Nasir, who privately thought that if Scarlet had in fact been raised by wolves it would answer many questions, gave the man a level look and said nothing. Will widened his eyes, indignant.

“Don’t look at me like that! I can be courteous if I have to. Yes my lord, no my lord, may I kiss your fucking boots my lord.” He grinned at the roll of Nasir’s eyes. “You’re not the only one with sodding bloody manners, you know.”

Nasir did not dignify that with a response. Will chuckled, amused at himself. “What did Robin say this fellow was? Lord High Chancellor of something, was it?”

“Will. We do not steal.”

“I didn’t say we would. But it’d be nice to get something out of this for ourselves, wouldn’t it?”

“Be quiet, Will.”

Scarlet snorted. “Barrel of fucking laughs, you are.” He hitched his cloak and cursed as a stray clump of snow, caught in its folds, slithered against his neck. Grumbling, he pawed it away. “Bloody snow. Bet you don’t have to worry about this bollocks where you come from. Your people probably don’t even have a word for it, do they.”

“ _El-thelej_ ,” Nasir said. He poked at an ice-crusted pile of snow caught in the lee of a rotting log with the point of the dagger he was toying with and gave a disapproving grunt. In his previous life, snow had been a novelty. It had stayed in the mountains where it belonged, occasionally falling in the high cities during the short-lived winters. As a boy, he had welcomed the rare snows with joy, loving the crisp white crunch underfoot, and he had looked forward, too, to the feasts when his father would pay to have snow carted down from the high places in boxes wrapped in sackcloth and hay, to cool drinks for his guests. In this land, though, snow came with a vengeance that was stunningly predictable, and outlasted its welcome in short order. Nasir did not like it at all – not the stark white mantle like a death shroud on the land, not the way the snow melted and refroze to form sharp shards of ice for the unwary, not the wet sludge and muck it left behind as it thawed. Green was the colour of life to him, and white the colour of death, and to his desert-bred bones the enduring chill of the English winter was an ongoing affront. “We know it. But we do not live in it.”

“No, your kind have more fucking sense.” Will was quiet a moment, then raised a rakish eyebrow. “Still, there are things to be said for the cold.”

Nasir blinked. “Yes?”

“Well, there’s ways to warm up, ain’t there?” Scarlet’s grin was wicked. “Come on, Naz. You might turn down a perfectly good drink, but even you wouldn’t walk away from a willing wench and a warm bed.”

That earned a grudging chuckle. “Will. Incorrigible.”

Scarlet’s smile widened, keen and bright. “Knew you wouldn’t.”

“Did I say so?”

“Might as well have,” Will pointed out. “What with your fancy words and all. Talk to your women like that too, do you?”

“No,” Nasir said mildly, though his eyes shone with humour. “In my land, we say a man who talks in bed has forgotten what his tongue is for.”

Will stared, then crowed with laughter. “You! Oh, you’re a deep one, you are. All right then, what _is_ a man’s tongue for?”

“If you do not know, Will, I cannot tell you.” Nasir’s own smile behind the folds of his _keffiyah_ was small but sharp, paying Scarlet back in kind for jibes that had gone before. “Though I pity your women for your lack.”

That made Will give an outraged yelp. “Who says I’m lacking?” he demanded. “Wasn’t that silly chit Nan, was it? Daft bloody girl doesn’t know when she’s had enough, that’s her problem. Three times in one night, and she still …”

“Will!” Nasir raised a hand in a gesture of surrender. “Stop! Enough. I would not hear it.”

“Afraid I’ll corrupt you, are you?” Scarlet’s leer was positively lecherous. Nasir shook his head, despairing. Franks. Or, more accurately, Will. Who had, the Saracen decided, not been raised by wolves at all. Wolves would have instilled more restraint.

The sound of horses on the road brought Nasir’s head up and silenced Will’s teasing. Both men swung to stare at the break of pathway through the bare trees, careful to keep well back in the shadows. Winter robbed Sherwood of much of its cover, which Nasir did not mind at all – he had learned to stalk quarry over more open country than this – but it left Will jumpy and cautious. The outlaw drew himself onto his haunches warily, letting the heavy deer hide in which he had wrapped himself fall to the ground. “Careful,” he hissed, in a way Nasir thought unnecessary. “If they see us, it’s a long run to shake ‘em.”

The impatient flick of one hand acknowledged that. Will grimaced, recognising dismissal when he saw it. Well, it had been a foolish thing to say, he supposed. Especially to this man. When was Nasir ever anything but careful?

The horsemen were drawing closer now. Will could see them in glimpses as they neared the bend in the road; four men, well mounted, two of them with the look of squires, and two in odd dark surcoats slashed with white. Scarlet had done enough soldiering in his time to know what he was looking at. He sucked in his breath over his teeth. “Hospitallers. Robin didn’t say nothing about Hospitallers.”

Nasir did not reply. He was watching the approaching horsemen with a fixed, rigid intensity. His coiled stillness put Scarlet in mind of a wound crossbow, hair triggered, ready to snap. That made Scarlet uncomfortable.

“Naz. Easy.”

“Go.”

“What?”

“Or stay.” Nasir wasn’t making any sense. As Will blinked, the man unfolded himself from his watchful crouch and darted toward the road. Will stared. Well, so much for careful. With a curse, he sprang after his friend.

The half frozen ground was not helpful. Will found himself slipping down the slope to the road, clutching at wet trees with one hand and his sword hilt with the other. Nasir was ahead of him, moving like a cat, silent and sure. The horsemen were rounding the bend, now; soon they would look up and see the outlaws in their path. Will wondered what the hell Nasir was playing at.

The Saracen stopped in the middle of the road. He did not draw his blades, but only waited, head high. His _keffiyah_ had fallen loose, baring his face; he looked, Will thought, like a hawk preparing to strike – fierce, intense, remote. Scrambling down the bank to his side, Will had the most unnerving sensation that the Saracen barely knew he was there. That was alarming. Nasir could be focussed, but not like this. This was almost unreachable.

“Nasir, what the bloody fuck are …”

Will was cut off by a sudden shout. The horsemen had seen them and drawn their mounts to a halt. The pair of knights in the fore had not drawn their weapons, but Will could see the way their hands hovered near their hips. Nasir lifted his jaw and squared his shoulders, pure defiance. Will swore.

“For fuck’s sake Naz, this isn’t a fucking crusade! If that’s Robin’s Sir Girault or whatever his name is, he won’t thank you for picking fights. Stand down!” It felt extremely peculiar to Will to be the one urging self-control; he half expected Nasir to laugh at him and announce it was all a joke. Nasir was never this rash, never.

“Go away, Will.”

And to think that he had always thought Nasir the sensible one. Will eyed the waiting knights warily. Only two. Squires didn’t count; they’d not act without their lords’ say so. He wondered which one was Girault.

“ _Salaam alaykum_.” One of the black-surcoated knights spoke, his voice rich and crisp in the still air. His eyes, a murky green in his weathered face, were vigilant, watching Nasir closely. Nasir, whose manners could be impeccable when he chose to use them, did not answer. Will felt his hackles starting to lift. That was not a good sign. Not a good sign at all.

“ _Salaam alaykum_ ,” the knight said again. Nasir only looked at him, then spat, very deliberately, into the mud on the side of the road. Will groaned. He spoke up, before things could get worse.

“You Sir Girault? Of …” Damn it all, what had Robin said? “Of Mirabeau?”

“Late of Mirabeau, though I haven’t seen that place in years,” the knight replied in careful, deeply accented English. “Girault of Antioch, now. Captain of Margat.”

“Margat?” Nasir’s voice, sharp and demanding, cut the air. “ _Qaleet al-Marqab_?”

“Castle of the Watchtower, yes.” Girault narrowed his eyes. “That’s what your people call it.”

“You are Girault of _Marqab_?”

“Yes.”

“Then you are a dog with no honour, and I spit on the line that whelped you.”

Will’s eyes went wide. Hell’s teeth, what was the man doing? Trying to get everyone killed? “Nasir, shut up!”

Too late for that, though. Girault’s companion had drawn his sword, and the squires did not look to be far behind. Girault himself had not moved, but his tension made his horse stamp and snort in protest. Very slowly, Girault let his mount edge forward until it was nearly close enough to touch. He stared down at Nasir. “What did you say?”

“ _Yela’an mayteen ahlak, ya ibn al-kelb_.” Nasir neither flinched nor lowered his gaze. His eyes were like black fire. Will was under no illusions that he had said anything good.

“ _Said bousak,_ _walad al-haram_ ,” the knight said coldly. “Keep a civil tongue. If you were mine, I’d have you whipped for that. Who is your master?”

“ _Allah ar-Rahman ar-Rahim_.” If the knight’s voice was cold, Nasir’s was ice. “Yours?”

For a moment the Hospitaller said nothing. Then he gave a gesture of disgust. “You are an arrogant son of an arrogant people.” Turning slightly in his saddle, he spoke over his shoulder to the squire behind him. “You see, Thierry? Worse than animals. Animals can be domesticated, trained. Saracens, though – they don’t even make good slaves. Can’t even beat their Devil out of them.”

Will didn’t even see it happen. One moment Girault was on his horse, letting his mouth run loose, and Nasir was standing rock-still in the road glaring daggers. The next, Girault was on the ground cursing in French with his horse rearing over him and Nasir was whirling back from the flailing hooves, knife in hand. Swearing profusely, Will palmed his own knife and launched after Nasir. He had no idea what he was going to do.

Girault struggled on the ground, trying to find his feet in the slippery winter mud. Behind him, the squires were shouting and he could hear his companion, Bohemund, spurring his destrier forward, the cry of the crusader kingdoms on his lips: “ _Deus lo vult!_ ” The Saracen paused only to duck out of the way of Bohemund’s horse, then flung himself under Girault’s snorting mount and set the edge of his dagger to the fallen knight’s throat.

“Tell me,” he grated, and his gaze was fixed and flat, “why I should not kill you for what you have done. Tell me now.”

“Get your hands off me, you cursed infidel!” Girault kicked out, aiming to drive his attacker back. At the same time, Will grabbed for Nasir’s shoulders, hauling him away.

“Naz! Stand _down_ , man! Robin said find him, not fucking kill him!”

Nasir spat something savage and vulgar and wrenched himself from Will’s grip. The dagger in Will’s hand, held awkwardly to avoid harming his friend, fell to the ground as Nasir broke away. One of the squires, the one Girault had called Thierry, thrust clumsily at the Saracen with his sword; Nasir gave that the backhanded contempt it deserved, stepping neatly aside and cracking the lad’s wrist with the hilt of his knife so that the boy yelped and his weapon fell into mud. Bohemund was reining about, his horse skidding on its haunches and snorting foam. Girault was halfway to his feet, tugging at his sword through the tangle of his mud-heavy cloak. Nasir kicked him in the chest, then grunted as a sharp pain bit into his leg below the knee; Girault’s sword might not have come free, but the man had scooped up Will’s fallen dagger and he was not shy of using it. The wound was not deep – Nasir had experience enough to know that without looking, and besides, he wore so much leather for a reason – but it hurt. He could feel his boot filling with blood. This Hospitaller, Nasir decided, was going to regret that.

“Nasir, fucking stop!” Will flung a lump of wood at the second squire, making his horse shy before he could do anything useful with it, and rammed a shoulder into Nasir’s back, sending them both into the mud. Bohemund’s destrier charged heavily through the place where they had both been standing, missing them – and Girault, who had thrown himself the other way – by inches. “You crack-brained maniac, what the fuck are you doing?”

“He dies.” The Saracen’s voice was a growl, and his eyes were black and blank. If Will had stopped to think about it, he decided later, he might even have been frightened by the look of them. As it was, he only wondered fleetingly how many men’s last sight those killer’s eyes had been, and tried to drag Nasir back down when he shoved himself to his haunches. Scarlet was only part way successful; Nasir was surprisingly strong, and he moved like an eel, twisting in ways Will would have thought impossible. He shrugged Will half away, lunging across the churned mud of the roadway to where Girault was again climbing to his knees. Making a desperate grab for Nasir’s knife hand, Scarlet caught at the man’s wrist, trying to wrest the blade free and managing to scrape a shallow cut down his own arm in the process. Girault fell back and lashed out with his own dagger, scoring the air in front of Nasir’s face, but the Saracen only did something quick and clever with his free hand and knocked the blade away.

“Stop!” Robin’s voice rang out in the crisp winter air, with all the authority of one born to command. In spite of himself, Will relaxed his hold on Nasir’s arm, looking around. The Saracen never so much as hesitated. He coiled and sprang, hitting Girault with one shoulder and driving him back to the ground. Girault thrashed and struggled, Will swore and leapt, and then a powerful set of arms caught Nasir around the chest and dragged him away, arms pinioned to his sides.

“Settle down, man.” John grunted, tightening his grip as the Saracen tried to shake him free. “Stop. It’s over. Stop.”

John was rewarded with a hiss of Arabic and one last twist that almost broke his hold, and then Nasir went still. Will, half sprawled on the ground, pushed himself to his knees and looked around. At the edge of the road, an arrow at half-draw and eyes cutting from the startled squires to the mounted knight and back, Much waited. Tuck had planted his impressive bulk between Will and the man on horseback, barring Bohemund’s way; if the knight wanted to attack now, he would have to ride over a cassocked friar to do it. Robin was staring at the carnage in the roadway as if he didn’t know whether to throw up his hands in disgust or tear strips off everyone’s backs. He looked, Will thought, like tearing strips was more likely. John still had Nasir in a strong hold, through he had eased his grip enough to let the man breathe. Scarlet rubbed a muddied hand at the bruise he could feel rising on his jaw – and how the sodding bloody fuck that had happened he couldn’t say – and shook his head.

“You took your fucking time.”

“What the hell is going on?” Robin demanded. And then, coming to the fallen knight’s side, “Sir Girault? Are you hurt?”

“Robert?” Girault’s eyes narrowed, searching Robin’s face. He accepted the hand the young man extended, clambering to his feet and rubbing carefully at one shoulder. His mail coif had slipped in the struggle to pool on his shoulders, revealing short cropped dark hair, well flecked with grey. “Huntingdon?”

“Huntingdon is my father’s title, my lord. And I go by Robin now.”

“Yes, your father told me you’d strayed.” Girault swiped ineffectually at the mud plastering his surcoat and growled in his throat. “These men are yours, are they?”

“I suppose.” Robin cast a quick, searching glance at Nasir and got nothing back, only the fierce glitter of bold, dark eyes in a closed, shuttered face. “What happened?”

“What happened?” That was Bohemund, speaking over Tuck’s head. He flung out one arm, pointing at the Saracen. “That … _savage_ … attacked us.” Turning to his companion, he frowned. “You know this man, Captain?”

“Of course I know him. I used to tell him hearthside stories when he still played with wooden swords.” And then, when Bohemund only blinked, confused, Girault snapped, “Pay attention, man! He’s all that tiresome little weasel in Nottingham could talk about. Him and the price on his head.”

Bohemund’s jaw clicked shut in surprise, but his eyes measured Robin up and down. Robin grinned. “Met the sheriff then, have you?”

“We have,” Girault said darkly. “And now, it seems, we’ve met Robin Hood.” He cast a hard look at Nasir, still being restrained by the big man in the shaggy jerkin, then cut his eyes back to Robin. “If that dog’s yours, Robert,” the man growled, “then for Christ’s sweet sake, you should keep it leashed. I trust you’ll have him flogged. He damn near killed me, and if Thierry’s wrist is broken …”

_“Ana laysa lahu.”_ Nasir fairly spat it; either his English had deserted him, or he was too angry to use it. Girault replied in the same language with something short and sharp; Robin glanced quickly from one man to the other.

“What was that?”

“He said he doesn’t belong to you. I told him to hold his devil’s tongue.”

Jesus God. Robin dragged a hand over his face and turned to Nasir, caught between wanting to apologise for Girault’s words and demanding an explanation of his friend. “Nasir, please. He doesn’t …”

“He does.” Nasir wrenched himself free of John’s hold, glaring. He took two steps, favouring his injured leg. Bohemund adjusted his grip on his sword, letting his stallion prance on the spot, wary of Much’s still-ready bow. The uninjured squire flanked his lord, looking unsure.

Tuck said, “Nasir. You’re hurt.”

The Saracen did not respond. He glared at Robin. “This? This is your father’s friend?”

“I’ve known him since I was a boy,” Robin said. “And I’ll thank you to show him some respect. This is a good man -”

“This?” Nasir stared. “Good?” He snarled something fiercely unflattering. “This … _qaatel?_ _Al jazzaar_ _lil-atfaal?_ ”

“English, Nasir, please!”

“It helps,” Girault said at Robin’s shoulder, “not to let them jabber in their own tongue. If you mean to tame them. If you _can_ tame them.”

Tame him? Robin blinked, taken aback. Nasir wasn’t some wild creature to be broken to another’s will, even if he was behaving right now like he’d never been anything else. “No, my lord, that’s not …”

“Butcher.” Nasir grated the word out, casting it down like a challenge. “English, you want? Then call him what he is. Butcher.” He could feel the knife wound in his leg throbbing brightly and hoped that it had stopped bleeding; his head felt lighter than he liked. He was not going to let the Hospitallers see that, though. He would not give them the satisfaction. But Robin … _Ya Allah_ , Robin. Why was he listening to this man? Defending him? Not for the first time, Nasir silently cursed the awkward feel of English on his tongue and wished he could say this with the clarity it needed. “Ask him, Rob. Ask him why!”

“Why what?” Robin frowned, exasperated. Girault made a disapproving sound.

“You let your property talk to you like that, boy?”

“He’s not -” Robin began to protest, then cut himself off as Nasir’s hand went to the hilt of one of his swords. “Nasir! No! Damn it man, I expect better from you than this! Show some control.”

Nasir stiffened as if he’d just been slapped. His eyes flashed, once, then lowered. When they came up again, they were hooded and cold. Robin flinched inwardly and berated himself for saying the wrong thing again. He reached out, meaning to grasp his friend’s arm in apology, but Nasir stepped away.

“As you say.” His voice was colourless, cool. With no further word, the Saracen turned and stalked into the forest.

Girault watched him go, then gave Robin a single hard look and turned to his squire. “Thierry? How’s that arm?”

“Not … well, I don’t think it’s broken, my lord.” The youth was still holding his wrist; he flexed his fingers with a grimace. “Hurts, my lord, but it will heal.”

“Just as well. A knight’s not worth much without a decent sword hand, lad.” Girault gave the squire a grin. “An honourable wound, though. Not much of a battle, but a devil-spawned enemy, at least.”

“Yes, my lord.” The squire frowned. “He … that man? He was a Saracen?”

“Sure as hellfire, my boy.” Girault glanced at Robin and murmured, “He’s new. Picked him up from the Preceptory up north, in your uncle’s lands. Hasn’t so much as laid eyes on a Saracen before now.”

Scarlet, who had been watching Girault with lowered brows, said, “Nasir’s a hard man to meet first up.”

Girault shrugged. “Like most of his kind. Arrogant, fierce, godless.”

“He’s not that,” Tuck corrected, waddling over with Girault’s horse in tow. Bohemund and the wary squire followed. “Fierce I’ll give you, and he’s a proud one, but he’s very much not godless. Not at all.”

“He’s Christian, Brother?” Girault seemed surprised. “Well done. Usually can’t get those bastards to come to Christ at the point of a sword. At least, not come and stay. They recant as soon as your back’s turned.”

“He’s not Christian,” Tuck allowed. “But he’s a man of faith all the same. And his beliefs aren’t so different from ours, as I understand.”

Girault curled his lip in disgust and gave Robin a hard look. “And you allow that? When your father said you’d strayed, he didn’t say you’d gone that far.”

“Allow it?” Robin raised his hands in frustration. “No, listen. I’ve been trying to tell you -”

“Bohemund, Ancel, this is Robert of Huntingdon. David’s boy.” Girault spoke over Robin’s protest as if he hadn’t heard a word. He gestured to the big ruddy complexioned knight with his broad face and hard eyes, and to the young squire at his heels, dark as a Saracen himself. “Robert, my comrade in arms, Sir Bohemund de Ville, and his squire, Ancel de Proix of Ascalon.”

“Honoured.” Robin gave a perfunctory salute in acknowledgement, glancing back in the direction Nasir had gone. That was something he was going to have to deal with; Nasir could take things so bloody personally at times. Clearly that fiery pride of his had taken a blow or two from whatever it was Girault had said, but Robin had the sense that there was more to Nasir’s uncharacteristic fury than simply hurt feelings. “My lord Girault -”

“Your father said we might find you if we came this way. Or rather, that you might find us. I think,” Girault said, expression serious, “that he might have been relying on it. There’s news you’ll want to hear.”

“Whatever it is,” Tuck said, “it’ll go down better with a nice stew and a decent cup of ale. Civilised men don’t huddle in the open road when there’s a perfectly good fire and a warm meal waiting. I can see to your lad’s arm, too.” The friar nodded towards Thierry. “I’ve got a salve for that.”

“Thank you, Brother. I’ve never been one for turning away offers of hospitality.” Girault took his horse’s bridle from Tuck’s grasp and gestured him on ahead. “Lead the way.”

Will came to stand at Robin’s shoulder, watching as Tuck led the two knights and their squires towards their camp. John hovered nearby, a concerned look on his face. He spoke thoughtfully. “Robin, I don’t like the smell of this. This Girault seems like trouble to me.”

“He’s an old friend,” Robin insisted. “He and my father fought together in the Holy Land.”

“Aye?” The big man rubbed his beard and gave Robin a considering look. “Well, it looks like Girault hasn’t stopped fighting. He knows this is England, doesn’t he?”

Will grunted at that. “Hard to say.” His eyes on Robin were very level. “You didn’t tell us they was Hospitallers.”

“I didn’t think I had to. I didn’t think it mattered.”

“Mattered to Naz, apparently.” Will’s tone was odd. He almost sounded disapproving, as if Robin had failed his friend somehow. Robin huffed out his breath, feeling suddenly defensive in spite of himself.

“How was I supposed to know he’d react like that?” Or react at all, if it came to that; Nasir usually had such restraint. “What was that even about?”

“Don’t know,” Will shrugged. “But I’ll tell you this. He knows your friend Girault. Not by sight maybe, but he knows the name, and whatever he knows it ain’t good.”

“What do you mean?” Robin didn’t like the sound of this. Scarlet wrinkled his nose.

“Naz wanted to know if Girault was from some place with watchtowers, and when Girault said he was, Nasir told him he was a worthless mongrel and started snarling at him in that twisty fucking language of his. Next thing it was all on.”

_Worthless mongrel_. “He said that?”

“You know what he’s like.” Will made a face. “Said it fancier. But I know an insult when I hear one, and he fucking meant it.”

_Ask him. Butcher. Ask him why_. Robin frowned and scrubbed a hand through his hair. “He’ll be back. I’ll talk to him then.”

“I’ll tell you something else,” Will said, glancing sideways at his leader. “When Naz went for his sword and you told him to show some control? That bastard Bohemund had his fucking blade levelled at your back. Much’s line was blocked by Girault and he knew it. That’s why Naz was reaching for a weapon. He was looking out for you. You might want to remember that, for next time.”

Oh, Christ Jesu. Robin closed his eyes in despair and cursed himself for an idiot. _I’m a fool, Malik. I’m sorry. I’m a fool_.

 

Nasir was at camp when they arrived. Robin, who had caught up easily to Tuck and the pair of knights, sighed at the quick, hostile way his Saracen friend got to his feet. Nasir had rinsed off most of the mud in which he had been covered and had done something about the wound to his leg, though Robin could see from the way he moved that it pained him. No one else would be able to tell, though; Nasir was very good at hiding his hurts. Now Nasir glared at their guests with undisguised hatred and made to leave. Robin moved to stop him.

“Nasir, wait.” Drawing his friend away from the others, the young nobleman laid a soothing hand on his forearm, not surprised to find it hard and tense. “I’m sorry for what was said. Please, stay. Eat.”

“I do not break bread with enemies.” Those dark eyes were hot, searing. There was something else in them though, something deeper, like a question Robin could not quite hear. The young man sighed again, unsure what was being asked of him, but knowing that it mattered. If only Nasir would just _say_ it.

“Girault isn’t your enemy. He doesn’t even know you.”

“Enemy of my people.” Nasir spat. “The man is a butcher, Robin.”

“Nasir, please.” Robin tried to keep his voice calm, soft. He wanted to shake Nasir until he rattled. Why was the man being so cursed difficult? “You told me once it was a war. Men do things in war …”

“Men do _not_. Not like that.” A faint expression of pain flickered across Nasir’s face and was gone almost before Robin knew it had been there. “Animals do not do that.”

“Do what?” Robin wanted to know. “You have to tell me, Malik. I don’t understand …”

“Ask him. He will know.” Nasir made a low, complicated sound, halfway between anger and a plea. “Ask him about _naphtha_.”

_Naphtha?_ What in the world did that mean? Robin’s brow creased in bafflement. “What?”

Nasir only shook his head. If Robin would not take his word for this, then let him hear it from the glorious Captain of Marqab himself. Pilgrims put to death, caravans sacked and slaughtered, and the boy … _Ya Allah_ , the boy. “ _Naphtha_. In Tripoli. In _Al-Ladhiqiyah_. Ask him.”

“Robert.” Girault’s voice, harsh and utterly sure of itself, interrupted whatever Robin was about to say. “You can discipline your dog later. Tell him to see to our horses now, will you?”

Robin flinched again and looked to Nasir, ashamed of both the knight’s words and, oddly, himself. He could not quite understand why. “I’m sorry, Malik. He’s been too long at war, maybe.”

“It is not for you to apologise.” The Saracen’s fists were clenched, but he confined himself to shooting Girault a vicious look. The gaze he turned on Robin was only slightly more kind. “I go. Someone should keep watch.”

“Don’t. You’re hurt, you should -”

“It is nothing. Leave it.” Nasir shifted all the same, taking his weight off his injured leg. “I go. You stay,” and here the Saracen’s eyes flashed with scorn, “with your friends.”

Sweet Christ, that was cutting. Robin drew breath to protest, but Nasir didn’t give him the chance. He was gone before Robin could even think of what to say, slipping into the shadows of the winter forest and disappearing between one breath and the next. Robin stared after him, lips a tight, despairing line, and swore quietly. _Jesu. Malik_.

“Insolent, for a slave.” Bohemund, who had settled himself by the fire under the outlaws’ shelter of strung hides, signalled to Ancel to tend the horses. Robin gritted his teeth.

“He’s not -”

“Insolent?” Bohemund raised his brows, then lowered them with what he probably fancied was a worldly smirk. It only made him look cruel. “Looks like it to me. You want to beat him, properly and often, if you hope to cure that, boy.”

Girault snorted. “No. Won’t work. Not with that one. He’s warrior stock, isn’t he?” The knight shook his head, helping himself to a swig of ale from the jar Tuck had brought out. “I’ve seen it before, with his kind. Beat one half to death and he’ll still look at you like you’re something that fell out of the arse end of a pig. You’d do best to put the dog down, Robert. You can never trust that sort.” He turned to Thierry with an _I told you so_ gesture. “See lad? This is what I’ve been telling you. The only good Saracen …”

“…is a dead Saracen, my lord.”

“Good lad.”

Will grunted darkly. “Well, that’s fucking charming.”

That stiffened Girault’s spine. He turned a demanding eye on Scarlet, leaning forward like a hound scenting prey. “What was that? You think otherwise, do you?”

“As a matter of fact,” Will announced, jaw jutting challengingly, “I do. I’ve seen you fight, mate, and I’ve seen him, and I know who I’d rather have at my back.”

For a moment, Girault looked as if he might rise to that. Bohemund halfway did. But then the older knight laughed, waving his companion back down and speaking over his shoulder to Robin.

“That’s another thing, Robert. You’ve no business letting a mad dog like that go armed.” Girault propped himself around to give Robin a disapproving wag of the finger. “Always were too soft with your hounds, lad.”

“He’s not a bloody dog!” Robin flung the words out, spinning on his heel. It felt strange to be shouting at this man for whom he had been taught such respect, but he couldn’t help himself. It had gone too far. “Stop talking about him like that. He’s not a slave; he doesn’t belong to me, he doesn’t belong to anyone! I’ve been trying to tell you that since you arrived!”

Girault blinked. “Then why is he here?”

“He’s my friend.” Robin put all the pride he could find into that, daring Girault to make something of it. Ah, well, his father had always said he was hot-headed. “And he’s a better man than most.”

“Better man than you,” Scarlet muttered under his breath, reclaiming the ale jar. He didn’t like these men, with their fancy surcoats and fancier names. He didn’t like them at all. Bohemund’s eyes narrowed as if he might have heard that; Will gave him a rakish grin. The man sat back, uncertain.

Girault was shaking his head sorrowfully. “Robert, lad. That’s foolishness. There’s charity, boy, and then there’s downright folly. This is folly. The man’s an infidel, a soulless savage. He can’t be trusted.”

“I trust him,” Robin announced, “with my life.”

“Aye,” John agreed, bulking large in his shaggy jerkin. “So do I. So do we all.”

“If he’s a soulless savage,” Will wanted to know, “what does that make your lot? What does that make those good God-fearing Norman nobles who go to Mass and fight for the Church and let honest Englishmen starve in the fields?” The outlaw glared at Girault as if he were personally responsible for every injustice in the world and raised his chin, demanding. “You tell me. What are they?”

“Nasir wouldn’t do that,” Much put in. “He says …” The lad tailed off, unable to quite explain what it was that Nasir had told him, about duty and the privilege of rank. “He says lords got to look out for the people, he does.”

Girault smiled tolerantly. “And what would a filthy Saracen know of lordship, my friends?”

“Rather a lot, actually.” Robin let that hang; Girault could make of it as he would. “Why does he know you?”

“Can’t say.” The Hospitaller shrugged, unconcerned. He was watching Tuck tend to Thierry’s injured wrist, fussing over the bandages like a mother hen. “Perhaps I fought him somewhere, him or his tribe.”

“Whatever you did,” Will observed, “you made an impression.”

“Aye, and not a good one.” John was still somewhat startled by his Saracen friend’s behaviour; he could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he had seen Nasir lose his control. Even in a temper, the man was always in command of himself. To see him otherwise was unsettling, to say the least.

“I don’t know what you’ve heard,” Girault said mildly, “but we’re not over there trying to make friends, you know. I’ve killed as many of his people as I could manage, over the years, and I make no apology. It’s God’s work, my friends. I’ve been called to do it.”

Tuck bristled, looking up from his work. “God calls no man to murder.”

“It’s war.” Girault shifted where he sat, suddenly intense. He jabbed his finger in the air in front of him, making his point. “Those animals took Jerusalem from righteous hands and defile the Holy City with their presence; it’s the duty of every man who can swing a sword to resist them.”

“Paynim bastards,” added Bohemund. “They mock Our Saviour, you know. Dragged the relic of the True Cross through the streets behind an ass. No true Christian soul can tolerate that.” His eyes on Robin were oddly calculating. Will, watching him, felt his hackles go up. He shifted surreptitiously, making sure his knife hilt was clear.

Robin didn’t seem to notice the measuring cast of Bohemund’s gaze. He spared the man a single glance, then looked back to Girault, shoulders set stubbornly. His voice, though quiet, was sure. “They didn’t take Jerusalem from anyone. They’ve been there all along. It’s their home. Of course they fight for it.” He gave his head a small shake; it was not so long ago that he had shared some of Girault’s beliefs, had even harboured dreams of travelling east himself to find adventure and join in that fight. Meeting Nasir had changed what he thought about that, though. Strange, what one man who dwelt so often in silence could do. “If they’ve shown disrespect for a relic or two, they’re not the only ones. Our people have defiled their holy places too, and with less provocation. And,” Robin’s eyes flashed hard, “they’re not animals. No more than you are.”

Girault turned a narrow gaze on Robin, his expression somewhere between shocked and severe. “You want to be careful, Robert my lad. You put your soul in danger, thinking those thoughts, consorting with that devil.”

“He’s not a devil!” Much looked alarmed. “He’s not.”

“No, lad,” John gave the boy’s shoulder a reassuring clap. “He’s not.”

“Then why’d that one say he is, then?” Much scowled at the knight. “Why’d you say that?”

“’Cos he don’t know no better, Much.” Will reached for a bowl, dipping it into the cook pot to sample the stew. “Fancy cloak, fancy name, and he’s spent his time at some fancy castle, but he don’t know no better.”

Bohemund glared. “Call yourselves good Christians?”

That earned him Will’s most wolfish smile. “No,” he said truthfully. “Do you?”

“That’s enough!” Tuck looked positively appalled. He marched over to the shelter, looming warningly. “I’ve heard what goes on over there. When it comes to putting whole towns to fire and sword, there’s nothing Christian about it. As our Lord says, let he who is without sin cast stones.” The portly friar sent a hard look about the small fire, sparing no one. “Everyone else can shut their mouths.”

“Well, we are all sinners in the eyes of the Lord,” Girault said with a strained smile. “Very well, Brother. Now, how about that stew?”

 

Nasir did not go far. He could hear, if he listened, the faint chatter of voices back at the camp, too distant to make out what they were saying. That was for the best, he thought. He’d shamed himself enough by his lack of control this day without making things worse by letting ignorant words rile him further; even with such provocation as Girault, Butcher of Marqab, walking into camp, he should have a better grasp on his emotions than that.

And he should, too, have cut the man’s throat when he’d had the chance.

It was for Robin’s sake that he hadn’t. Robin, who thought the man a hero of his childhood, who wanted Nasir to welcome him even though he came with the blood of Nasir’s people on his hands. And worse than blood. No one used Byzantine Fire like that. No man who knew a true and loving God. The boy’s face

_(he’s still alive he’s breathing damn me how is he breathing?)_

had been melted like wax.

His leg hurt. The stab wound was not the worst he’d had – it was, really, little more than a deep cut, slicing into the side of his calf – but it was enough to send claws of pain through his leg with every step. Right now it burned and throbbed under the clean wrappings he had used to staunch the blood. He had cleaned the wound too, but had not bothered with Tuck’s cure-all salve. Nasir knew a few tricks of his own when it came to tending wounds, learned of necessity, the hard way. He had been a fighter all his life. He knew about being hurt.

There were some wounds, though, that were less simple to treat, and right now his leg was not all that was causing him pain. He shifted uncomfortably, trying to find a position in the thicket of twisted saplings in which he had sought shelter that would ease both the throb of his calf and the sick twist in his chest. He told himself not to be fool. Of course Girault had assumed he was property; what man of his people would be in this land of his own will, after all? Nor was it the first time that mistake had been made. If Robin had not exactly hastened to correct the error, it hardly mattered. Nasir was more than capable of correcting the man himself.

Except, oddly, it did matter. It surprised Nasir somewhat, how much Robin’s silence had bothered him. He should not have cared: silence, after all, was something he was very used to. Besides, he was stronger than that, and he had never liked to have others fight his battles for him. But nor had he liked the uneasy, shadowed look in Robin’s eyes at Girault’s words, as of shame buried deep. The look in all his friends’ eyes, if it came to that – puzzled, wary, unsure. As if his anger was something they could not understand. As if _he_ were something they could not understand. As if, Allah help him, on some level Girault was right.

It lacked somewhat in perspective, in Nasir’s opinion. After all, had he not taken their enemies to heart and given his blades to their fight, though he hardly cared how England was governed or what injustices her people might know? But now here was an enemy of his, one who had earned death a dozen times over, and his Frankish – English, they preferred, as if there was a difference – friends had behaved as if Nasir were the madman, to be subdued and sent away. A part of Nasir wondered what exactly he had expected; he had always been the outsider here, after all. There were times, like now, when he was very aware of that.

Oh, but _Robin_. Nasir drew a deep breath and leaned his head back against the twined branches of the thicket wall. His hands wanted to be fists; he told them to unclench. It was not a betrayal, not really. It was only Robin doing as he was raised to do, being as he was raised to be. Nasir understood that: there were things he had been raised to as well, and they were not always easily set aside. Robin’s words though – oh, they had sliced deep. _I expect better from you than this_ … Nasir scowled, ignoring the hollow in his gut that made him feel as if he had swallowed rocks. He was not the one who had transgressed, here; he was not the one who had failed. And even if he was, who was Robin – brash and foolish young Frank who viewed the world with a child’s innocence and, often, a child’s understanding – to call him to account? What right did Robin have to expect anything of him at all?

No. Now he was indulging in foolishness. Nasir shook his head and blew out his breath through his nose, caught between laughing at his own arrogance and cursing himself for an idiot. Leadership aside, rank aside, Robin was his friend

_(ya sadiqi al-aziz, ya an-nayyir)_

and that alone gave him more right than anyone in the world. Friendship, after all – true friendship, that rare bond of heart and soul and mind – was a power greater than any lordly title. A man who swore an oath to his lord was expected only to honour the vow he had made; a man who opened his soul to a friend swore no oaths, but was expected to honour everything. Perhaps they had both failed, then. It would not, Nasir supposed, thinking of the turmoil that Robin’s pale eyes could spark in his soul and the peace he had lost to that fall of bright gold hair, have been the first time. He should not, after all, feel these things. Robin should not tempt him so, with his smile and his open heart. A true friend would know better.

That was idiocy too, blaming Robin for the shadows of his own weakness and his own longing. It made Nasir’s head pound, trying to understand this. He wished he knew what he wanted. Or that he didn’t want it at all. How much easier simply not to care, and hadn’t he learned that

_(oh my brother, I’m sorry, so sorry)_

time and again? It was enough to send a man mad.

Nasir shoved those thoughts away and focussed instead on the Hospitallers and what they owed. He wondered what Girault would say about the deaths on his hands, about the naphtha. Probably he would boast, Nasir thought – or, if he knew shame, he might say nothing at all. Marqab stood on a caravan trail that ran the length of the coast, from Tripoli to the south; merchants and pilgrims travelled that way, traders and poets, men who avoided the fight where they could. Many of them had died on that route, passing Marqab; for all that the caravans were protected by this treaty or that, they made for easy prey for men like Girault. Nasir could feel nothing but contempt for that. War was made between warriors; it was not fitting to take the battle to the innocent. Even in his life before England, when his blades had been commanded by a madman in a mountain fortress, he had never been called on to kill a man who was not part of the fight. There was no honour – and no point – in that.

Honour did not seem to much concern Girault of Marqab, though. The man’s name had become a watchword for cruelty in the lands around the castle where his men ranged. Knights of Saint John of Jerusalem, they called themselves – an Order born of faith and healing that did not, so far as Nasir had ever been able to make out, understand much of either. Even the Constable of Tripoli, appointed by the Frankish Prince of Antioch, had tried to rein in the predations committed by the men of Marqab under Girault’s command, but that had been to no avail. Hospitallers answered to no authority but that of Rome, and it had not been Nasir’s impression that the figurehead high priest of the Roman church – Clement or Celestine or Innocent or whatever this current one was called – gave two figs for what went on his name, so long as money came into his coffers.

So Girault, Captain of Marqab, was a butcher commanding a garrison of butchers, and Robin thought him a hero of the crusade. Nasir sighed and scrubbed a hand through his hair. It was a hard thing, losing one’s heroes. But Girault did not deserve the respect of a man as decent as Rob; Girault did not deserve respect at all. Nasir could remember to the hour when he had come, indelibly, to understand that. It had been an evening in early spring, with the seaways freshly open to the north and the stars very bright in a moonless sky, and a boy had wandered down the docks towards him burning like a human torch and dripping liquid fire in his wake.

 

“What’s _naphtha_?” Robin tore a corner off his flatbread and dipped it in the rich stew, watching hard as Girault did the same. The knight looked well at ease scraping his meal from a rough bowl by a smoking fire; clearly the man was used to camp fare. Now he grunted around a mouthful of bread, mildly surprised.

“ _Naphtha_? It’s what some call Greek Fire, my boy. Why do you ask?”

Robin gave a nonchalant shrug. “Oh, something Nasir said. He did his share of fighting out there. You might have guessed.”

Girault’s lips tightened. “That’s your Saracen, is it? Yes, I guessed. So he knows about Greek Fire, then.” The man tipped his head, glancing sidelong, thoughtful. “Does he know how to make it?”

“I don’t know,” Robin answered honestly. “I don’t think so.”

“Probably as well.” Even so, Girault’s eyes were considering. “Dangerous stuff. Fearsome weapon when it’s used against you. Bad enough when it’s not.”

“Is it true that it burns on water?”

“Water, stone, bare earth, green hides.” Girault shrugged. “Flesh. Like the fires of Hell, boy. Water won’t put it out. Burns until it’s gone, and it doesn’t leave much behind. I’ve seen the heat of it crack rocks. Why?”

“The Saracens use it as a weapon?”

“Aye, sometimes. Not often, Christ be thanked. It’s hard to make, and harder to control.” The knight reached for the cook pot, scooping out a second helping and ripping off another chunk of bread. “This stew’s good. You eat well, at any rate. My thanks, Brother.”

Tuck, who usually preened happily at the merest mention of food, only gave a sombre nod. Robin watched the knight thoughtfully. “You’ve used it?”

“A time or two. Found us a tame alchemist in Latakia. He’ll mix up anything you like, so long as the price is right. Anything from poisons to love potions.”

“The love potions,” put in Bohemund, sounding oddly satisfied for some reason, “don’t work. But the Greek Fire does.”

Latakia. _Al-Ladhiqiyah_. Robin nodded. “You tested it, of course.” Something in his gut was starting to twist. He made himself sound ordinary, interested, undisturbed.

Girault snorted, amused. “Of course. Funny story, actually. We were told that Greek Fire – true Greek Fire, the kind that burns with a white flame – would consume itself so quickly that a man could hold it in the palm of his hand while it burned and not feel so much as a spark. Which would be a pretty trick, but make for a fool’s weapon.”

Will, listening on the other side of the fire, made an incredulous sound. “Oh, aye? And who’d you find to volunteer to test that, eh? Some overbred sod with too much wine inside him, was it?”

“Hardly.” Girault raised a scathing brow. “I’d not jeopardise one of my own men. No. We paid a local lad. Tavern boy. A bit simple. Looked after the horses.”

Oh, hell. Robin felt his skin go cold. “A Saracen boy.”

“Hmm.” Girault sucked a mouthful of stew through his teeth and nodded. “Turns out we were lied to. It didn’t burn with a white flame. Damned effective, though.”

“Depends on how they mix it, I’ve heard,” said Bohemund, shaking his spoon pensively. “Different mixes give different colours to the flames. Don’t ask me how.”

“And the boy?” Robin asked that very, very carefully. Much’s eyes were wide and afraid; John had gone utterly still. Girault glanced at Bohemund and shrugged, unconcerned.

“Died, I suppose. Went up like a torch.”

“Dear God.” Will stared. “Sweet bloody fuck. You … you, what, burned him alive? To … to see if it would work?” Behind him, Tuck crossed himself and whispered something in Latin.

“To test what we’d been given.” Girault was unrepentant. “Greek Fire’s expensive, and not always reliable. A man needs to know his weapons are in working order.”

“And when your sword needs sharpening,” John said in a dangerously flat voice, “do you test that on children too?”

“Of course not.” Girault seemed offended by the suggestion. He patted his sword hilt proudly. “Good steel, this. Holds an edge well.”

Will shoved his bowl away, his appetite abruptly gone. In disgust, he glared at Girault. “You sick bastard. No wonder Naz wanted to rip your fucking heart out. Should’ve fucking let him.”

“Does my father know this?” Through the dull horror, Robin heard himself ask. It seemed important, somehow. His father had long counted this man a friend, and Robin had always respected his father. It seemed important. “Does he?”

“Jesus God lad, what does it matter?” Girault seemed honestly puzzled. “It was years ago, and what difference does one less Saracen brat make?”

“Does he know?”

“I daresay not. I’ve never told him. Hardly seemed worth mentioning. And speaking of your father, lad …”

“Get out.”

“What?” Girault frowned.

“Get out. Leave. You’re not welcome here. You,” Robin announced in a low, burning voice, “are not the man I thought you were.”

“I’m the man I’ve always been, boy, and you’re an outlaw and a disgrace to your father’s name.” Girault glared down his nose, his murky eyes hard. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

“I know who I am,” Robin told him, and meant it. Herne’s Son, the people’s hope, Robin i’the Hood – he had given up a life to embrace that. His own life though, and by his own choice. And he had never killed a child like a stray cat, just to see if he could. “I don’t need your blessing on it.”

“Just as well, because I wouldn’t bloody give it.” Girault tossed his bowl towards the fire, where it clattered against the side of the cook pot and fell to rest upside down. He sneered. “I should take you over my knee and thrash you boy, to teach you to respect your betters. Your father should have done it years ago. He was always too bloody soft on you after your lady mother died.”

“You do not speak of her,” Robin said coldly. “You don’t have the right.”

“Why not? I knew her better than you ever did. You were just a squalling whelp when she went to the Lord. And now your father’s near fit to follow her, and you’re still a whelp, and still squalling, only now you -”

“What?” Sitting up straight, Robin stared. The twisting in his midriff turned to ice. “My father’s what?”

“That’s what I came here to tell you, boy.” Girault’s battle-worn face did not change; he still looked angry and hard. “Your father’s not been well. You’d know that, if you were a son worthy of the name.”

Will growled. “Mind your words, you. He does as well by his father as any. Saved his life when the king charged him with treason.” The outlaw paused as the others looked at him, suddenly uncomfortable with their attention. What? It was only the truth. He gave an embarrassed huff and shrugged, toying with a stick from the fire to give his hands something to do. “’S’more’n most men could manage, ain’t it.”

“Well, that’s as may be.” Girault gave a grudging nod, then drew in a long breath. “But you need to know, Robert. His health’s been failing for a while. This winter’s been hard on him. He’s been hiding it -”

“His physicians?”

The Hospitaller captain spat in disgust. “Worth that. He’d get better treatment in Jerusalem. I told him that. The dry air would do him good, and he’d be in sight of the Holy Sepulchre again, but he won’t leave Huntingdon without an heir.”

Robin swallowed, struggling to think. His father? Jerusalem? It was well known that the ill and dying sought out the Blessed City in hopes of either a cure or salvation, but … his father? “How bad is he?”

For a moment Girault only looked at him, but then he seemed to relent and gave an ambiguous grunt, hitching one shoulder in a way that seemed to say _so-so_. “To be fair, lad, he’s not dying. Yet. But he’s not the man he was, either. You know he only built up Huntingdon the way he has for you. What good is it to him now?”

“I can’t go back,” Robin said in a low and troubled voice. “Even if I wanted to. I’ve been disinherited. He had no choice.”

“I know. What did you expect? Frolicking about with a pack of criminals and cut-throats? And that savage you’re so bloody fond of?” A sharp, contemptuous gesture showed what Girault thought of Robin’s friends and the life he had chosen to lead. “But you’d better find a way to make this right, Robert. For your father’s sake. And I’m no sawbones, mind, but I’ve seen his look before. I’ll tell you lad, you don’t have as much time as you think.”

 

_The boy came trailing a rain of fire. It fell from him in drops, yellow and green in the dark street. He came in silence but for the harsh roar of the flames. His hands were outstretched, almost in a gesture of benediction. About his head and body, the fire wreathed him like the sun._

_Nasir stared, struck at once by the horror and the beauty – the awful, terrible beauty – then glanced back to the ship he had come to meet, waiting patiently at her mooring. All was quiet save for the soft slap of water on the docks and the low blatt of fire. Even in the dock houses behind him, all was dark and still. It might, almost, have been a dream._

_The screaming told him otherwise. It did not come from the boy of fire; it came from beyond him, where a sloping street ran down to the docks from the square above. A woman – a girl really, Nasir supposed – running with her skirts gathered and her head bare, as graceful as a gazelle and wailing like all the world was dying, came out of the dark and cast herself after the burning boy. Nasir did not think. He only swore and leapt._

_He caught her bare moments before she flung herself at the boy, feeling the heat of the fire claw at his skin and dry his throat even as he did so. The boy seemed not to notice either of them, veering instead in a slow, smooth curve. Towards the water, Nasir noticed; perhaps he was trying to save himself, even now. The thought made him feel strangely ill. The girl struggled in his arms._

_“Daoud!” She howled at the boy, simultaneously trying to rip free of Nasir’s hold and cling to him in panic. “Help him! Daoud!”_

_Help him? Merciful Allah, was the girl blind? There was no helping that: there was no getting near it. That was Byzantine Fire, or Nasir was a goat-herder. He spared a moment’s regret for his bow, left in his hired room near the city’s markets. One well placed arrow would have put the boy out of his pain, at least. The girl kicked at his shins and crumpled against him, keening high and sharp, then tried to surge away again. He pulled her back._

_“Stop! You can’t -”_

_“Rima!” A new voice made Nasir swing about, though he did not release his hold on the girl. An older man huffed his way down the docks, his belly wide and his eyes glinting white and fearful in the light of stars and flame. The girl wailed again and reached for him; Nasir took that to mean that she knew him and pushed the girl into the newcomer’s arms._

_“Keep her back.”_

_“The boy -”_

_“I know.” Did the man think he had lost the use of his eyes? The boy and his caul of flames was weaving closer to the edge of the dock. In the heart of the fire, the flames glowed blue. Nasir had seen this before. Water, even a whole ocean of it, was not going to extinguish that. Not quickly, at any rate. Where in all the levels of hell had this boy found Byzantine bloody Fire?_

_There were more people now, the sound of running feet and voices calling out. Nasir cursed silently – there went a night’s work – and tossed a wide-eyed young man, tousle-haired from sleep but with his wits about him all the same, the end of a length of rope snatched up from the edge of the dock. The other end Nasir kept hold of himself. “His legs. Bring him down. It’s Byzantine Fire – naphtha, understand? Don’t touch him!”_

_The young man swallowed nervously, but nodded even so. He went to his right, towards the water; Nasir moved left, flicking the rope in a tight line. The boy, tangled, toppled with a heavy thud that made the flames about him surge and leap._

_“Here. Here’s sand.” Someone was thinking. Nasir didn’t look up to see who, he only scrambled aside to let the ballast barrel roll past. Another followed, and a desperate shovelling of sand and wet sacks. Finally, the flames were gone._

_The boy was alive. Nasir would never understand how, but he was alive. His face was a horror of melted flesh, his nose gone and his eyes fused shut, his ears burned down to nubs; his skin was charred and cracked and wetly red. His jaw hung open in a silent scream, his tongue blackened and narrow like a lizard’s. The girl was wailing still in the background; nearer to hand, someone was weeping. Nasir looked up to see the old big-bellied man. He wondered who was tending the girl, then decided he didn’t care. So long as she did not see this, she would survive._

_“He’s not dead. He’s still breathing. How is he still breathing?”_

_Nasir shook his head. The boy was making a terrible sound, wet and rasping with a thin whistling at the end. Shudders wracked him, making him jitter where he lay like a flipped bug. His hands, burned to round, fingerless ruins, were still raised. In the centre of one of them, something glinted a silver. A coin, melted into the skin._

_“What happened? Who did this?”_

_“Hospitallers. Staying at the lodge next to mine. They paid him to carry … to carry a flask. And a candle. That was all, they said. Just …”_

_“Hospitallers?” That complicated things; Nasir did not need Hospitallers in the city right now. Not with what else he had to do. “From the boats? Or from Marqab?”_

_“Marqab. The Captain himself.” The old man spat as he said it, though his eyes darted nervously. Nasir growled in his throat. Girault of Marqab, again. Again. The man would pay for this. Nasir drew in his breath, shook his head._

_“He can’t be saved. You know that, don’t you?”_

_The man gave a single jerky nod. “He’s my brother’s lad. How am I going to tell him?”_

_Nasir didn’t answer. He only drew one of his knives, small but sharp, and muttered a quiet prayer. He had not killed a child before, but he would not have left a dog to suffer like this._

_“Look away.”_

_The old man make a choked, sobbing sound and did. Nasir braced one hand on the boy’s shoulder and felt the flesh shift and slide under his touch like cooked meat coming away from the bone. He felt his gorge rise, swallowed hard, and pushed the knife home._

_There was very little blood, but the whistling sound stopped. Nasir felt something in him shift and crack._

_He had never killed a child before. And if Allah were kind, Girault of Marqab would pay for that too._

 

Shaking himself out of his memories, Nasir glared at the dulling sky and shivered. It was dismally cold. Berating himself for not thinking to bring a cloak or a blanket or even a sleeping hide to crawl under, the man wrapped his arms tighter about his chest, tucking his hands in. His fingers were aching, and he knew exactly how well he would wield a blade with hands

_(burned to shapeless stumps branded with silver)_

that fumbled and stung in the cold. He would sooner avoid that, if he could.

The faint sounds from the camp had trailed off; all around him was only the sigh of the wind and the low creak of bending trees, and the occasion flicker of birdsong. An angry chitter was the sound of a squirrel – small, but decent enough for the pot – proclaiming its territory. Nasir couldn’t imagine why it would bother. A snow frosted tree in a winter forest was hardly worth the energy.

A low whistle came from away to his left, one single clear note rising like a bell into another. Nasir thought for a moment of not answering; he was not sure he wanted to speak with Robin right now, or deal with the confusion and accusation he half feared he would see in those clear blue eyes. That was cowardice, though. He had sent the man to cut down his hero. He should face the consequences. The Saracen sighed and whistled back, letting the notes fall.

The thicket shivered as Robin pushed his way into the sheltered space inside. He was moving awkwardly; shifting to make space for him, Nasir saw why. He shook his head, at once pained and touched. Whatever was between them,

_(my heart your heart my heart)_

whatever their differences, Robin was not supposed to play the servant. “Rob. It is not necessary.”

“Don’t, Malik. Just …” Robin proffered the bowl in his hands to Nasir, holding it out like a page serving table at court. “Just take it, please.” On his knees in the confines of the thicket’s hollow, the young man looked like a supplicant asking forgiveness of his lord. Nasir wondered if that was intentional, and wished that he would stop. Rob should not kneel to him, not like that. Shaking his head again, he took the bowl, dipping in a small bow even as his hands rejoiced at the touch of warmth. Robin lowered his head briefly in return, saying nothing.

The stew was thick and generous with meat – Nasir thought briefly of the chittering squirrel and silently thanked Allah for the wondrous variety of His bounty – and sank a low trail of heat all the way down inside him with the first mouthful. His eyes went to Robin, still on his knees, waiting. No, that would not do. Nasir lifted his chin and indicated the space beside him in the curve of the thicket’s heart. “Come. Here.”

Robin didn’t move. His eyes had a shadowed, far-off look that Nasir found bothersome. He seemed to be very far away. Nasir tried again. “Rob?”

“I thought you might be hungry.”

“My thanks.” Carefully sidelong, and from under lowered brows, Nasir watched Robin closely. This was not what he had expected. He had been prepared for Robin to push him, to demand answers – there were days when Nasir thought that _why_ was Rob’s favourite word of all – to insist on understanding. He had not, though, been prepared for this almost absent calm. He raised the bowl in salute. “For your kindness. This was not needful.”

Robin nodded slowly. He sounded distant, off-kilter. “Any friend might give food and warmth. It’s only hospitality. You said.”

“It is.”

“And I’m sorry. I want you to know that. I’m sorry. Truly.”

Nasir narrowed his eyes. There was something wrong here, something other than only a man who had seen the perfect colours of his childhood sent awry, something other than regret for having failed a friend. Robin was bright by nature – bright eyes, bright smile, bright quick laughter in the face of the world – but now he seemed washed out, pale. Like bone bleached too long in the sun. “Rob. Tell me. What has happened?”

“The things Girault said.” Robin’s voice was quiet, almost flat. If Nasir had been any other man, he would merely have thought Robin well composed. As it was, though, he knew all too well what he was listening to: strong emotion, held down hard. Robin went on. “He shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. Or about you. And I shouldn’t have let him. I should have spoken up sooner.”

Nasir said nothing. There was nothing to say. He could hardly argue with Robin over those things. Truth was truth, after all, and he respected this man too much to tell him otherwise. Robin nodded as if hearing some unspoken agreement. Probably he had, Nasir supposed. Robin heard most things he didn’t say. Nasir let him speak. Clearly there were things that he felt needed to be said.

“I should have trusted you. About Girault.” Robin paused, with a grimace that pulled regretfully at one cheek, and raised a hand to indicate the hilt of one of the Saracen’s short, wicked swords. “And I should have trusted you with those. Trusted you to know when to use them.”

Now it was Nasir’s turn to nod. If there was one thing in the world that he knew, it was when to use his weapons. He wondered what weapon to use now, what might break through that bleakness, and decided on kindness, so far as he could.

“It is forgiven. Forgotten.” And then, when Robin opened his mouth to protest, “No more. Say nothing of it.”

It occurred to Nasir that, in the interests of fairness, he should ask Robin’s pardon for his own actions, but then he remembered Girault’s hard, arrogant eyes and what the man had done, and he wanted to kill him all over again. There was no apologising for that. Instead, Nasir gave a sigh and patted the space beside him, coaxing. Having Robin on his knees before him like a penitent humbling himself for judgement was making him horribly uncomfortable. Frank he might be, and an infant in the scheme of things – Nasir’s blood had been old and strong when Persepolis still stood above the sands and Robin’s people had been living in caves – but he was still what counted for nobility in this land. And he was still Nasir’s

_(heart light talisman breath )_

friend. It was not fitting. Not fitting at all. “Come. _Min fadlak, sidiqi._ Sit.”

For a brief moment, Robin didn’t twitch, only stayed where he was with that awful, inward look on his face. Then something seemed to change in him, like a door shutting on a dark room or a window opening to the light, and he let out a deep sigh and shook himself and came to Nasir’s side, slumping wearily against the spinney’s tangled branches.

“How’s your leg?” Robin did not expect much of an answer to that – Nasir rarely acknowledged his wounds much beyond a dismissive grunt and a wave of the hand. To his surprise, though, Nasir said, “It hurts.”

“Is it bad?” Robin had not thought that his friend’s wound was serious, but he had never heard this man admit so easily to pain before. Or even admit to pain at all. He supposed it might have been trust, or simply that Nasir was too tired and cold to care … or it could have been something else. Nasir was not at ease offering comfort, though there had been times when Robin had been able to see in his eyes that he wanted to do so – when Marion had left, for one, and when King John had sentenced his father to death on account of his uncle’s treachery. Perhaps this was his way of offering comfort now, letting his own pain show to give Robin something to cling to, to remind him that he was not alone. Robin was not sure. It was hard to tell sometimes, with Nasir.

Now the Saracen took another slow mouthful of the hot stew and hitched one shoulder in a small shrug. “Not bad. But …” He shrugged, flexed his leg slightly and frowned. “Not pleasant.”

Not pleasant. Well, being stabbed generally wasn’t. Robin smiled in spite of himself; trust Nasir to phrase it in such ordinary terms. “Does it need stitching? I can do it, if you’d rather not trust to Tuck’s needlework.”

Nasir, who was perfectly capable of stitching his own wounds if it came to that, laughed softly. “You are better at needlework, then?”

“Well, I might not be able to pick you out in yellow peonies, but I can sew in a straight line. I’ve done it before. For Harry, mostly.”

A questioning brow met that over the rim of the now half-empty bowl. Robin rolled his eyes. “Yes. For all the reasons you think. Once when I lost all our money in a dice game and he got hit with a bottle trying to drag me out of it. Once when he got caught with the bailiff’s daughter and he got hit with a candlestick while _I_ tried to drag _him_ out of it. And once when we got into a stupid fight over some bloody girl and I laid open his cheek with the seal of Huntingdon.” Robin’s grin was barely half its usual self, but it still made him shine softly like polished gold. “All good, noble wounds, honestly won.” And then, taking the shine away in one breath, he said, “Girault told us about the boy.”

Ah. Nasir nodded, even as he mourned the loss of that glow. Of course Girault had told them. He had not expected the man to lie. Robin went on. “He wasn’t even ashamed of it. Sweet saints, he burned a boy to death -”

“No.” Nasir’s voice was quiet, but the weight of it cut Robin’s words out of the air like rain. “Not to death.”

Something about the man’s tone, so perfectly dispassionate, made Robin close his eyes briefly in pain. “Oh God, Malik, no. Don’t.”

“He burned the boy alive, but he did not kill him. Better if he had.”

Better if …? Robin tried to think what that might mean. His mind shied away from it; he did not want to know. Nasir told him anyway.

“The naphtha burned the skin from his body, even the tongue from his mouth, but it did not kill him. I did that.” He touched one of the knives he carried, hidden in his boot. “With this. It was a mercy.” Another last mouthful of stew, and Nasir set the empty bowl aside, as matter-of-fact as if he discussed death every day. Robin supposed that, in a way, he did.

Shutting his eyes, the young man let his head fall back against the branches where he leaned, feeling sick in both heart and stomach. Not only for what Girault had done to that unknown boy in that far off land, but for what he had made Nasir do – Nasir, who killed with brutal precision and not a moment’s regret, and who should never have had to. No, Robin realised with a distant flare of guilt; that was wrong. Nasir would not have been the man he was if he had not been tempered in that forge, that crucible of fire and faith that was his homeland. That tempering had made him strong, and it was his strength (and his weakness, so bitterly fought and so deeply hidden) that Robin had come to love. Perhaps, if Nasir’s path had been easier, Robin might have loved him less … but perhaps too it would have been worth that loss to ease some few of Nasir’s silent scars.

No. That was too hard a road, too convoluted a philosophy. Robin found he could not follow it. He decided not to try. Nasir, after all, if faced with those questions – what if this had not happened, what if things had been different? – would have responded with a puzzled frown and a shrug. What was, he would say, was. _Mashallah._ God has willed it.

And Robin’s father’s failing health, and Girault’s blinkered lies? Had God willed those too? Robin sighed, his head a whirling mess, and said the first thing that came to his lips, knowing it was true as soon as the words were spoken.

“Sometimes,” he heard himself say, with a disgust levelled at himself, “when I listen to men like Girault, I think it’s a bloody wonder you put up with any of us at all.”

Nasir tipped his head, surprised. Did Robin think he could not tell the difference between an honourless cur who would butcher children in the streets and a decent man, no matter where he found them? “You are not like Girault.”

“No. Maybe not. But there was a time when I thought wanted to be.”

“No.” Nasir understood about heroes who became men and lost their glamour; he knew Robin was grieving a loss. That might have gone some way to explaining his odd, brittle mood, and his willingness to strike at himself. But there was no way that Robin could have become the thing that Girault was. He was too pure for that; that darkness was not in him. “You wanted the lie he showed you, perhaps.”

“I wanted to go grow up a warrior and go to Jerusalem, and fight the infidel. Your people.”

That earned a slow nod. Nasir thought of pointing out that when he had been young, he had dreamed of driving the Franks back into the sea and laughing on the shore as they drowned. He did not, though. Youth was often a foolish thing. “And now?”

“Now I don’t.” Robin snapped off a twig that had been poking at him and started to break it into small, even pieces. “Want to fight, that is. There’s enough to fight for here – justice for the people, freedom from oppression – without slogging across your hellish deserts on horseback and shouting _Deus lo vult_ to the skies for no good reason.” He made a disparaging sound. “ _Deus lo vult_ – God wills it. As if men like those could know what God wills. As if any man could. That’s so much arrogance it’s folly.” A pause, and then; “Your words are better. _Inshallah_. _If_ God wills. It makes a difference, I think.”

Silence met that, and a small crease of Nasir’s brow. As it happened, he agreed. He was surprised to hear Robin say so, though. He had not thought the man had paid so much attention, or given it so much consideration. _You are almost Arab_ , Nasir had told him once, not very long ago. He had said it half in jest, but perhaps he had not been far wrong. Now Robin only glanced at him, then pursed his lips thoughtfully.

“I would still like to see Jerusalem, one day. But without the blood.”

Nasir gave a small, unhappy laugh. Now that he could answer. “I fear there will never be a time when there is no blood. Not for Jerusalem.”

Robin shook his head. “Malik. I am sorry.”

He sounded so serious and sincere that Nasir felt his chest go tight. If he’d been any good at gentle words, he would have given them then. Instead, rational creature that he was, he heard himself ask: “For what?”

“Everything. All of it.” Robin gave a frustrated gesture. “Men like Girault. The war. What you’ve seen because of it. The land you can’t go home to. Not speaking out for you when I should have. All of it.”

Oh, he was going to take responsibility for all the world now, was he? Or at least for all of his people in it. All the disparate, squabbling lands of the West, the scheming and politicking of dukes and deacons, barons and bishops, cardinals and kings, and Rob would shoulder the blame? One idealistic, dispossessed nobleman who had never so much as raised his voice in anger without regretting it after, and he spoke as if he were at fault for half of the world’s ills. Nasir didn’t know whether to laugh or box his ears. He settled, in the end, for teasing him. And, in his way, for simple sense.

“Ah, Robin. I did not know you were a man of such influence.”

“What?”

“To be responsible for so much … do you lords of Huntingdon also command the tides to turn, and the sun to rise?” He smiled a little, to soften his words. Robin, understanding that he was being mocked, if very gently, rolled his eyes.

“A man doesn’t have to be responsible for something to regret that it happened, Malik. You know that.”

“A man does not. But you …” Nasir lifted his brows and his hands both heavenward, as if offering up his friend’s foolishness to God. “You, Rob, want to carry the whole world.”

“Not all of it,” Robin demurred. “Just …” He trailed off, unsure how to finish that. Just my part of it? Just you, just us, just what my duty demands? He thought of his father, growing old and alone in Huntingdon’s elegant, powerful walls, and of Marion living with her dead love behind walls of her own, and he thought too of the walls that Nasir carried with him and let so few people pass. Sometimes it seemed to him that the world was all walls, and everyone locked away. Damn Girault for all of this. Things had been simpler this morning. “My father’s ill. Girault told me. He’s ill, and Huntingdon has no heir.”

Ah, so here was the true reason for that inward stare, those shadows on Rob’s face. Duty, obligation, love – they could tear a man two ways. Nasir understood that. He said nothing, only touched the back of Robin’s wrist, very lightly, and waited to see what would come next.

“Perhaps … perhaps I should have told him about Gisburne?” Questioning eyes met Nasir’s, wide and blue in the grey winter light. “Maybe then …”

“Then your father would have been given a braggart and a bully for a son, and what solace is that?” Nasir made a staying gesture; if Robin would give up his birthright, let it be for a better man than that. Gisburne, in Nasir’s estimation, had some way to go before he was worthy of an earldom, or the right to Rob’s kinship. “Gisburne is better where he is, finding his own way. He may learn what he needs to know, _inshallah_.”

“ _Inshallah_.” With a sigh, Robin conceded the point. Nasir was right, of course. Gisburne, damaged and bitter as he was, was not the answer to anyone’s prayer. There was a reason, after all, that they had sent him away.

For a short while there was silence. Surprisingly, it was Nasir who broke it. He spoke in a low, firm voice, sure of what he was saying. “Rob. If your father is ill, you should go to him.”

Robin shook his head, not hearing perhaps the certainty – and the knowledge – behind his friend’s words. “No. That would only put him in danger. Harbouring an outlaw -”

“His son.”

“Disinherited. Disowned.”

“Even so.” Nasir could remember his own father standing beneath the high arched door to the courtyard, and the light that had streamed in broken patterns through the lattice-work of the window stretching on the floor behind him. The smooth white stone had been very bright, the band of tile work very blue, and the woven rug painfully, hurtfully red. _“If you go,”_ his father had said, in a voice so full of jagged edges that even the memory of it cut, _“don’t come back. You’ll be nothing of mine. Nothing.”_ On the window ledge, a cat had been washing its paws, all ochre and gold, and in the street outside someone had gone by singing, and in the fine house with its white walls, Mahmud Abu Asad al-Maqtafi had turned away. Nasir swallowed. Robin should not make the same mistakes as he had done. _Oh, my father, may you know peace_. “Even so.”

Something in the way Nasir’s voice almost caught on that last, soft word made Robin narrow his eyes in thought. There was, he knew, something real behind that. He did not ask, though. A story for another time, Nasir would say. Probably he was right. He usually was. And oh, dear God, but he wanted to see his father again. Lowering his head a moment, the young man gathered himself then glanced up, looking at once certain and resigned. “I’ll go then. Whatever the risk. Will you come with me?”

Nasir nodded, once. Robin huffed out his breath in a small, mirthless laugh. Stupid question. “It had best be soon.”

“He is bad?”

“Girault says no, but …” Taking a deep breath, Robin shook out his pale hair and turned his face to the sky. “He also says that there’s not as much time as I think. I’m inclined to believe him. Because,” and here he paused, thinking of Marion and what he had lost that he had never really had, “there’s never as much time as you think, is there?”

“No.” Nasir thought of his father again, and the sound of the women wailing. A leaf had caught in Robin’s hair; he found himself reaching for it, untangling it from the sweep of white gold with deft, careful fingers. It came away with a strand of that silk wrapped around it, gossamer pale. “Never.”

Robin said: “Your hands are cold.” He sounded very calm. Leaning over, he took both of Nasir’s hands between his, cupping them together for warmth. His eyes, softer now, scanned Nasir’s face as if looking for some sign, then fell away. After a while his hands did too. Neither of them spoke. _Never as much time as you think._

Dusk came early, in winter. The light, grey and poor all day, was starting to dim. Robin shifted, drawing himself away.

“Will you come back to the fire? You’ll freeze out here.”

“Girault is gone?” A raised eyebrow went with that, to show that he already knew the answer. Robin sighed and rubbed a hand over his face, grimacing at his own carelessness. Might as well ask the lion to feast with the lamb. Idiot.

“No. I’m sorry. Not yet. And it’s too late in the day now for them to go far. We’ll put them out on the road south in the morning.” He tilted his head, slanting Nasir an apologetic glance. “Will wanted to feed him to you in slices, if that’s any compensation.”

“Will is sometimes a good judge of character.” Nasir hid a brief, hard smile, glad of Will’s ferocity. “I will stay here. It is not fitting to share bread and warmth with a man such as he.”

“You’ll freeze. I’ll bring you something warm.”

“Rob. Do not play the servant for me.”

“Not a servant,” Robin told him truthfully. “A friend. It is fitting?”

Nasir smiled, caught out. “ _Na’am, sadiqi_. It is fitting.”

As Robin pushed his way out through the spinney, Nasir looked down into his still-clasped hands. The leaf, dry and sere, lay between them, with that strand of white gold around it. For a long while he only looked at it, as if memorising its bright fine glint against the dark. Then, with a whisper that was half a prayer, he lifted his hands and let it go.

 

It had not snowed during the night, for which Nasir was grateful. The water with which he washed for dawn prayer was bitterly cold, but at least he had not had to crack ice to get to it.

He had not slept. One did not sleep, when one had let the wolves in amongst the flock. Rather, he had sat up, watchful and wary. Girault of Marqab might have shared his friends’ fire and eaten their food, but he had also killed before where he should not. Nasir was not ready to trust to the laws of hospitality and to simple decency that he would not do so again.

The thick bundle of blankets Robin had brought him had served to keep back the worst of the night’s cold; in the predawn gloom, Nasir’s injured leg was no more stiff than he might have expected. He favoured it as he padded silently about the edge of the camp, breath frosting in the chill air. The fire had died to embers overnight. Very quietly, Nasir set about putting that to rights.

“ _Sabaah al-khayr._ ”

Looking up quickly, Nasir found Girault’s eyes on him. The knight was still in his blankets, but if he was foggy from sleep his gaze, steady and cool, did not show it. He seemed to be waiting for Nasir to answer. When the Saracen did not, Girault spoke again, in English. “I said, good morning.”

“I heard you.”

Girault grunted and sat up, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “A night in the cold hasn’t done much to improve your manners, I see. I suppose I should be grateful you didn’t cut our throats while we slept.”

Nasir, who had in fact considered doing just that, said nothing. His eyes glittered as the fire caught. He started to move away.

“Robert tells me you’re a free man.”

That stopped him. Nasir gave the man a long hard look. “Yes.”

“Then what are you doing in England?” Girault’s expression was shrewd, measuring. “Why are you here?”

As if, Nasir thought, those were not questions he had asked himself a hundred times. He gave a derisive smile. “I like it. It’s green.”

The Hospitaller’s face didn’t change; he still had that speculative look on, as if Nasir were a puzzle he was trying to work out. “You’re a warrior. What happened? Did you flee the fight?”

_Flee_. Part of Nasir wanted to laugh at that. Another part of him wanted to rail. No, he had not fled, he had been dragged away against all of his will, and when that will had been returned to him, he had been here, in this strange land, very far from home.

_But you didn’t go back_ , a voice murmured suddenly in his head. _And didn’t you leave the fight even before they took you? You did, didn’t you? You did_.

“I did _not_.” Nasir was not sure even as he spoke who he was answering: Girault, or that soft insistent voice. His hands were tingling, wanting his weapons; he let one of them fist at his side, clenching his knuckles white. That familiar hard focus threatened to fall over his vision; he did his best to fight it back. There would not be a killing here. There would not.

A hand touched his shoulder, making him glance around, startled. He had not even noticed anyone was behind him. That was poorly done; he should be more aware than that. Usually he was. Especially of this man. Robin gave him a look both quizzical and warm, perhaps surprised himself at Nasir’s reaction, and let his hand tighten in a way that was welcome and warning combined.

“Thank you for the fire, _sadiqi_. They leave soon. Could you scout ahead for us and see the way is clear?”

That was meant as a mercy, Nasir knew; Robin was trying to give him a reason to stay away. As if he needed one. Ignoring Girault – and Bohemund, who had just snorted awake like a bear – Nasir inclined his head briefly to Robin’s request and stalked away. This time, as he moved, he did not favour his injured leg at all.

Girault watched until he was gone, then grunted and dragged a hand over his face, feeling the rasp of three days’ growth of beard scrape against his palm. “Not particularly friendly, is he?”

“Did you expect him to be?” Robin’s tone was too flat for disbelief. Girault did not rise to it. He only shrugged, tossing his blankets aside.

“Choose your friends better lad, that’s all I’ll say.”

“Good advice.” The smile Robin used was pure politics, curving his lips and saying nothing. The face of diplomacy, his father had called it; pleasant, ambiguous, giving nothing away – and utterly implacable. Girault narrowed his eyes as if sensing the insult, but he said nothing. Robin thought that was wise. He gestured to the fire, where Much was already mixing hearth cakes and setting them to bake on flat stones. “Up. Eat. Then we’ll see you on your way. No doubt you’re keen to be off.”

Girault nodded and fetched his sleeping squire a brisk kick, knocking him awake. “Thierry, you and Ancel ready the horses, then come and eat. We’ve a way to go. No point outstaying our welcome, is there?”

And he smiled, as if he even meant it.

 

Will would not, he decided, be sorry to see the back of Robin’s fine and fancy friends. Well, not friends perhaps, not after what Girault had said and done – and he had the cheek to call Nasir a fucking savage, did he? – but they were Robin’s kind, nonetheless. Robert of Huntingdon’s kind, at any rate. Sometimes Will still wasn’t sure there was a difference.

He didn’t like Girault. He had decided that very quickly, almost from the first time the man had opened his mouth. Next time Nasir wanted to kill a man they’d only just met, Scarlet was inclined to think he’d let him. He said as much to John as they made their way back towards the road. Robin was ahead with the pair of Hospitallers behind him and their squires, one dark and graceful and one gangling and fair, bumbling at their heels. The boys were leading the horses; all Will could see beyond the broad rumps and swishing tails was the occasional flash of Robin’s fair hair and the white slashed cross on the knights’ coats. He scowled. “Tell you one thing. Naz had the measure of these bastards as soon as he saw them. They ain’t right.”

“I’ll not argue that,” John replied. He had his staff set to his shoulder, almost as if he thought he might need to use it, and his eyes on the knights’ backs. “That Girault’s a piece of work. And the other one …”

Will grunted, knowing exactly what John meant. Bohemund had rubbed him the wrong way from the start, with his arrogant voice and the way he watched them all, as if calculating his chances. Will remembered the way the man’s ears had pricked up on the road when Girault had mentioned the sheriff and his harping complaints, and the assessing look that came and went from his eyes. Something about the man reminded Scarlet of Gisburne – or at least, of Gisburne before Gulnar’s wolves and Newark gaol had thrashed the animal out of him. Will could not have said what it was – the man’s cocksure conceit, perhaps, or his shifty eyes – but he did not begin to trust him.

John shifted his staff from one shoulder to the other, a frown creasing his broad forehead. It made him look like a puzzled mastiff. “And speaking of Naz, where’s he got to?”

“He’ll be around. Watching.” Will glanced off into the winter forest, still shrouded in places in morning mist, as if he half expected to see Nasir shadowing them through the trees. “Robin sent him off ahead, probably to keep him from ripping Girault’s bloody head from his sodding neck, but he won’t have gone far. He don’t trust this lot anymore’n I do.”

“Aye, well. I’ll be pleased to be rid of them myself.” John shot both knights, drawing well ahead on the track, a dark look. “Haughty bastards the pair o’them.”

Will sniggered. “Comes with the cloak. Fancier the fucking cloak, the more jumped-up the sod wearing it.”

“Teach you that when you were soldiering, did they?”

“Didn’t need to be fucking taught it, John.” Scarlet slanted his friend a telling look. “I got eyes, don’t I?”

Much, who had been listening as he wandered behind John and Scarlet, spoke up. “Robin’s got a fancy cloak,” he said.

“What?”

“He does.” Much sounded affronted, as if Will had just called him a liar. “That one what’s all wolfskin on the inside and blue wool on the out. He don’t use it for nowt but sleeping in, but it’s fancy all the same. Does that mean he’s jumped up too?”

“No lad,” John told him. Will agreed.

“Nah. It means he used to be jumped up, but now he’s just being fucking practical. Weather like this, if I had a wolfskin cloak, I’d bloody use it too.”

Much nodded, seeming happy with that. He eyed the men ahead of them, screwing up his face in a way that Will knew all too well. It meant questions, that look. He swallowed a sigh and waited to see what Much would say.

“Do you think it’s true what the knight said?” The young man sounded troubled. “About Robin’s father?”

John shrugged, sympathetic. “Likely is, lad. Don’t see why he’d lie about something like that.”

Much thought about that a moment. “But … if it’s his father, and he is ill, then … will Robin leave us?”

“No.” Will’s tone was scornful. “Robin’s not a bloody doctor, is he? Can’t do much good. Besides, we saved the earl once, and damn near died doing it. Man didn’t even say thank you.”

“I know he’s not a doctor, Will,” said Much in a patient voice. “But it’s what Girault said, ain’t it. Robin’s the earl’s only son. He’s got to go back, ain’t he? To be lord of the manor, like.”

“He won’t leave us, Much.” John gave Will an odd look and laid a big hand on Much’s shoulder. “Might want to go see the earl, but he’ll not stay. His life’s here now.”

“Well, that’s good.” Much nodded. He hadn’t liked the idea of Robin going away; it made him uneasy. “That’s all right then.” He paused, then wrinkled his nose again, eyeing the knights up ahead warily. Will groaned. More bloody questions.

“Those men,” the lad started, lowering his voice as though he thought he might be overheard in spite of the fact that Robin and their unwelcome guests were a good way in front and likely doing their own talking. “They don’t like Nasir much, do they.”

“You’d be right there,” Will muttered, letting his fingers stray to the bindings that covered the shallow wound he’d earned himself grappling for the Saracen’s knife. Much frowned.

“And Nasir don’t like them.”

“None of us like them, Much.”

“Well, yes, but ….” Much’s frown deepened. “But with them and Naz it’s … well, why?”

Will rolled his eyes and looked at John, raising his hands helplessly. That was a question for Tuck, or maybe for Robin; Will was not much for delicate answers. John did his best.

“Can’t rightly say, lad.” The big man scratched at his beard in thought. “I think … well, I think maybe they’ve all been fighting too long, those men and Nasir both, in whatever place it is Naz comes from. And now it’s got so they can’t do anything else.”

Will was inclined to think that a simplification – he had seen war, after all; he had some idea of what it could do to men – but not terribly much of one. Sometimes, when a man found a thing he was good at, it was difficult to walk away from that. Girault was good, it seemed, at hating. And Nasir was very good at holding grudges – though not, maybe, without cause. Thinking about that, Scarlet gave a sour grunt. “Nothing else ‘cept burn children and boast about it.”

That made John flinch and growl and Much’s young face go hard, though his eyes were large and fretful. Will went on. “Now I’m not saying Naz has been a fucking saint in his life, ‘cos I’m pretty sure he ain’t. There’s blood on those hands for sure – half a world of it, by my guess, and not all of it earned in honest daylight, if you take my meaning. That’s what ‘assassin’ fucking means.” Scarlet grimaced at the thought of their Saracen friend’s secret past and what else it might contain, and kicked at a lump of mud, sending it splattering along the trail. “But even in war, any sodding war, there’s a line. Naz might have crossed it a time or two, but Girault and his kind? They’ve forgotten what the fucking line looks like, and I’ll bet you thirty silver marks to an acorn on that.”

For a moment, no one answered. Then John cleared his throat, trying to lighten the mood. “You haven’t got thirty silver marks, Scarlet.”

“Worth it, though.” Will rapped his knuckles over the top of his own head with a wolfish grin. “For this. So says the sheriff.”

“Sheriff says fifty,” Much said. The other two looked at him, startled.

“Fifty?” John blinked. That was dangerous; that was a fair sum. A man might do something stupid for fifty. “Where’d you hear that?”

“Bohemund said so. When he was talking to his squire, like, late last night. Said he heard it in Nottingham. Most valuable wolfsheads in Sherwood, he said.”

“Aye, well,” Scarlet grumbled. “Here’s one wolf who’d like to keep his head where it is.”

“I don’t like the sound o’ that,” John muttered. “What’s he doing talking coin? Smells off to me.”

“They all smell off.” Will scowled and kicked at the mud again. “Them and their squires and their fancy cloaks. They ain’t right John, I’m telling you. They ain’t right.”

 

“This is as far as we go.” Robin stopped on the edge of the road, leaving space for the squires to lead the horses by. Thierry’s wrist was still wrapped in its strapping, but he managed both his mount and Girault’s without complaint. Clearly Nasir’s blow had not done him too much damage. Robin wasn’t surprised; the Saracen knew how to control his strikes when he needed to. If he’d wanted the boy crippled, Thierry’s hand would still have been lying in the roadway where they’d first met. “This path will take you out onto the Great North Road. You can get to wherever you’re going from there.”

“London,” Girault said briefly, taking his horse from his squire. The animal sidled uneasily in the mud; Girault gave the bit a quick jerk and swung into the saddle. “Back to the Priory. Then to Hull and eastward again.”

“Back to Outremer?”

“Yes.” The knight flicked his cloak back over his horse’s rump, freeing up his sword hilt, and plucked idly at his gloves. “Been away from the place for half a year now, seeing to a thing or two here and in France. Would never have thought I’d say this, but I miss it. Even if it is all sun and shale and Saracens.” The man grinned, making his hard-bitten face look briefly young. “Surprising, isn’t it, what a man can come to call home.”

Robin, who had been raised to stone walls and fine linens, considered the bleak beauty of Sherwood in winter and supposed that that was so.

“You’ll remember what I told you, lad.” Girault gathered his reins as his horse sidled again, turning the restive animal on the spot and speaking over his shoulder. “Have a care for your father.”

“I will, my lord.”

“Aye. Well. Good.” Girault nodded. “David’s a good man. And a damn fine fighter.” He gave that grin again, quick and sharp-edged. “We had some times out there, I can tell you.” And then, impatient, “Thierry, what are you doing? You’re supposed to ride it, boy, not dance with it.”

“Yes, my lord. Sorry.” Thierry had one foot in the stirrup, hopping on the spot while his horse circled, snorting. Robin laughed and took the beast’s head, telling it firmly to stand. Thierry hauled himself astride and gave the outlaw leader a shy, grateful smile … and then his eyes cut sharply to his right, going wide and white.

Afterwards, Robin would think that it was Thierry’s eyes that had saved him, and his own instincts honed sharp by living on the wrong edge of the law. The lad stared and started like a doe when a hunter broke cover, and Robin did not pause or even think. He threw himself aside, ducking away and spinning, scrabbling for cover.

There was movement in the corner of his eye, rushing at him in threat; without thinking, Robin threw up a hand in defence and felt something hard and bright slice over his forearm. The blow sent a spreading numbness down his wrist, but no pain followed it; that, Robin knew, would come after. If he lived that long. Bohemund’s face was half a snarl.

Twisting away from his attacker, Robin reached desperately for Albion, for anything to put between himself and that sharp steel. Bohemund surged after him, dagger raised to strike again, and slipped in the thick mud, slewing sideways. His dagger, that had been aimed at Robin’s neck, bit deep into the outlaw’s shoulder instead. Robin felt the awful burn of it, and the sick agonising rasp of steel on bone as the dagger’s blade, flawed and notched, snapped in two. A blinding flare of white broke across Robin’s eyes and he went to his knees, gasping in pain. For a handful of heartbeats, everything seemed to recede into the distance, going dark. Robin shook his head, fighting for his senses. A long way off, someone was swearing, and someone else was shouting, and then Robin felt a horse jostle him, knocking him to the ground and treading hard on his outflung hand. Another searing jolt of pain ran through his arm, bringing him back to himself with a shock like cold water to the face, and in his hand something went snap. Robin cursed in a breathless voice and tried to roll away. Above him, Bohemund, on his feet with only the broken off hilt of his dagger in his hand, swore and went for his sword.

Robin heard, through his pain, the familiar sound of an arrow ripping the air, and Bohemund staggered, staring in surprise at the black-fletched shaft that had struck him high in the chest. The man paused and took an unsteady step, then turned fixed and fierce eyes on the fallen outlaw and skinned back his lips, his sword half free of its scabbard. Robin kicked out urgently, trying to ignore the white hot grind and pulse of the blade in his shoulder and knowing that it wasn’t enough, that without a sword in hand he could do nothing, that the killing strike would fall and he could not stop it. Bohemund’s sword came free. The man lurched forward. Robin braced for what would come.

The killing strike did not fall. A dark, compact shape broke onto the roadway, coming fast enough to make the horses shy. Robin was dimly aware of Thierry’s mount rearing back and the boy landing heavily in the mud nearby, and then Nasir was standing over him, black eyes flashing like death. Robin saw one of those beautiful curved blades come up and saw, too, the peculiar, almost graceful way that Bohemund stumbled and swayed and dropped away. He had a heartbeat to think that that was odd, that Nasir hadn’t even touched the man … and then he saw Girault, sword drawn and still astride his mount, looking down on them all like something carved from granite.

Bohemund, face down in the road, didn’t move. Neither, for a moment, did Nasir. The Saracen’s eyes matched his blades, sharp and deadly and ready to strike. Girault only looked back, long and steady, then lowered his weapon.

As if that had been a cue, Will and John broke through the line of brambles onto the road, breathing hard. Nasir dropped to Robin’s side, abandoning his weapons, his hands going at once to Robin’s wounds, seeking to staunch the blood. There was very much of it.

Robin tried to struggle upright, but he propped himself on his injured hand and fell back with a gasp, eyes wide and dark with pain. Blood welled from the cut on the young man’s sword arm, the deep puncture to his left shoulder. Something about the heat of it, and the way it ran over his fingers, made Nasir lurch and shudder inside. _Oh, please, Allah be good, be merciful, not like this, not now._ Aloud, low and desperate, he heard himself saying, “Be still, _sadiqi_ , be still.”

It was, Robin found, ungodly hard to focus. He made himself concentrate, peering around as John tore Girault from his horse, cursing like a rumble of thunder. He shook his head, tried to tell him to stop.

“No.” It came out as a croak, caught on jagged edges of pain. “No. Don’t.”

“Stop!” Nasir’s voice, like ice breaking. The tone of command was effortless; he spoke like a man who expected to be obeyed. Distantly, Robin wondered that anyone could think Nasir anything other than noble born. People could be so blind. “Hold!”

“Hold?” Will stared. “That bastard -”

“Saved Robin’s life,” Nasir interrupted bluntly. Even so, his eyes on Girault were not kind. The knight, shrugging off John’s hands, stepped forward.

“How bad is it?”

Nasir scowled and said something quick and harsh in Arabic. Girault answered with the same. Robin thought of knocking their heads together and decided it would be too much trouble.

“Don’t,” he managed, though his voice sounded odd to his own ears, light and shaken. “Don’t talk over me as if I’m not here.”

“Hush, _sadiqi_.”

“Be quiet, Robert.”

Both Girault and Nasir spoke at once, then glared at each other. Nasir shifted, careless of the mud, letting Robin lean back against him and holding him there when he tried again to rise. His hands were slick with blood. “No, Rob. Be still.”

“It’s not … I’m …” Robin blinked, forgetting what he had been going to say. The steel of the dagger’s blade grated horribly against the bones of his shoulder, sending a wave of nausea through him, cutting off his words. “Christ Jesus that _hurts_.”

“Then in Allah’s name be _still_ , you thrice-damned fool of a Frank!”

Appallingly, Robin found he wanted to laugh. Ah, that was Nasir, showing his fangs again, the way he always did when he cared. Or when he was afraid. That realisation sobered him; he tried to raise his hand to touch Nasir’s, to reassure. His left arm would not do as he asked; he hissed and flinched, and settled for leaning back into Nasir’s grip. He had, strangely, come out in a cold sweat. Even so, he murmured, “I’m all right _sadiqi_ , I promise. I’m all right,” and felt the hands that held him tighten briefly in response.

“Let me see.” Girault leaned in, pushing Nasir’s hands away. The Saracen snarled at him; Girault snarled back. “ _Haaza sayyi_. Fight me later. Now’s not the time.”

Nasir shook his head and swore silently, both at his own lack of discipline and at Girault’s words. Of course the wounds were bad, he could damn well see that. Did this man think him utterly a fool? Robin’s left hand curled in a strange, half-sprung way that Nasir didn’t like, tell-tale of broken bones, but broken bones could be mended. The wound to his shoulder was the worst, gouting blood, rich and red, every time the young outlaw moved. He would bleed more by the time they got that dagger blade out. Nasir only prayed the flawed steel had not severed anything important; he had seen men bleed to death from wounds no worse than these.

That thought frightened him more than it had a right to, threatening to undo something inside him. He found himself reciting, wordlessly, a single, powerful line of prayer, feeling it echo in time with his heart. _In the name of Allah, most Gracious, most Compassionate, Thee alone we worship, Thee alone we ask for help._ In his arms, Robin, always fair, had gone so pale he was almost translucent. Most of that, the Saracen knew, was simple honest pain, but even so a voice in his head murmured, over and over, _Never enough time_.

Robin’s breath caught as the pain flexed its claws again, but he did not pull away from Nasir’s touch. That might have been courage, or simply his body’s need for comfort, to be eased. Nasir told his hands to be kind. They wanted to rend the sky. Rob should not be hurt like this, not by a man who had shared his fire and his food, a man to whom he had been a fit and noble host. He should _not_. This was simple treachery, ugly and faithless. Nasir berated himself over that, inwardly cursing his carelessness. These were men of Marqab, and Bohemund no different from his cursed Captain, with all his greed in his eyes; surely Nasir should have seen this coming. At the very least, he should have been here to prevent it.

Robin said, rather pensively, “I think I’m going to be sick.”

“That’s shock.” Girault hunkered down, peering closely at his wound. He answered absently, as if he didn’t care. “Throw up if you need to, no shame in it.”

Running a light finger over the shattered piece of steel in Robin’s flesh, the knight sat back on his heels and watched as the young man gritted his teeth and fisted his good hand in Nasir’s sleeve. Nasir whispered something in return, briefly cradling Robin’s neck in a way that conveyed both comfort and concern. The Saracen’s knuckles were white, but his touch seemed very gentle. Girault, who had cause to know how hard those hands were, found that both interesting and unsettling. Until now, he would have said the man had nothing gentle in him. But Robin’s bright blood on his olive dark skin had done something to chase the implacable ice from the Saracen’s eyes, leaving them raw and flashing, between fury and grief. It made him, Girault reflected, look halfway human. He tried not to think about that, or what else it might mean.

Pointing to the broken blade caught in Robin’s shoulder, the knight said, brutally matter-of-fact, “That has to come out.”

“Cheap bloody knife,” Robin managed, doing his best to sound unperturbed when he wanted to howl. “If he was going to stab me with something, he could have picked a better blade.”

“As well he didn’t,” Girault said shortly. “If the blade hadn’t snapped, you’d likely be dead. If he’d had time for a second strike -”

Nasir growled something hard and angry that made Girault glance at him under his brows, impressed in spite of himself. Robin, catching that look, said, “What? What did he say?”

“Nothing good,” Girault told him, with a grim little smile. “Remarkably creative, though. And I doubt it’s physically possible, though these Saracens are inventive bastards. I’d give good money to see him try.”

That made Robin huff out his breath in half a laugh, but very carefully; it was best, he had found, not to move. The broken blade seemed to strike sparks of pain off his bones every time he shifted. “Nasir, you’re as bad as Scarlet.”

“I am not -” Nasir broke himself off mid-way, bringing his teeth together with a click. _Ya Allah_ , these Franks, they had no sense of priority. They would talk though the very ending of the world. “You are hurt. This needs tending, Rob. The blade must come out. Your … _friend_ … is right.”

That last had come through gritted teeth. Robin, hearing it, only hoped that Nasir and Girault would hold their uneasy truce a little longer. If Nasir decided that he was going to pick now to try and rip out the other man’s throat, there would be nothing Robin could do about it. He sighed and grimaced.

“That’s going to hurt, isn’t it.”

“Rather a lot, I expect,” Girault agreed. “But it won’t kill you.”

“ _Inshallah_ , it won’t.” Robin smiled to himself at the flicker of surprise that went over Girault’s face when he said that; what, did the man think he was the only one who could learn a foreign word or two? “Well, come on then. Get on with it.”

“Not here.” Girault shook his head. “This will need cleaning, stitching -”

“Here, there, it makes no matter.” What passed for medicine in this land was, in Nasir’s observation, rudimentary at best; anything that could be done for Robin at their camp could be done here just as well, and sooner. That snapped-off steel in this strong young body was an affront, a personal offence: he wanted it gone. A part of him knew that was irrational; the rest of him didn’t care. “You have wine to wash, and for the rest,” he said, indicating his belt pouch with the flick of one hand, “I have what is needful.”

Robin decided he was not surprised. Of course Nasir would carry the means for patching himself up; the man was forever throwing himself into one skirmish or another. Even so, right now Robin found the idea of Nasir wielding a needle unreasonably amusing. He wondered if that was shock too.

“What, yellow peonies?”

“No.” Nasir’s lips twitched faintly, in what Robin knew for a smile even if the line of the man’s shoulders and the set of his jaw gave away his tension. His eyes were unguarded with care. For some reason, that left an odd flipping in Robin’s belly, half shame and half sweetness. Nasir never showed what he felt so openly as that, never. “Not peonies.”

“And Bohemund?”

The flash of Nasir’s eyes told Robin exactly what he thought of Bohemund. All he said, though, was: “Do not trouble yourself. He is dealt with.”

Dealt with. Well, that was … emphatic. Robin took a deep breath and braced himself. “All right then. I’m ready.”

Girault met Robin’s eyes in a long and steady look, then he nodded and flicked his gaze to Nasir. “You hold him still. I’ll get that blade out.”

In the end, it hurt even more than Robin had thought it would.

 

Robin did not think that he had disgraced himself. There were marks on Nasir’s arms where Robin’s fingers had gripped that would be bruises come nightfall, and during the worst of it he had kicked out and caught Thierry – unfortunate lad, that one, perennially in the way – in the knee, but he had neither fainted nor cried like a girl. He had cursed the air raw in three different languages and at one point Nasir had given a short, surprised laugh and corrected his invective –‘ _Ibn al- **metnakah** , sadiqi_,’ – but he had not wept. He had not wept.

Nasir seemed to approve. That was to the good, for the Saracen seemed, right now, to approve of little else. Not of Girault, or of Bohemund – not dead, as it turned out, though by the look of his wounds he should have been – being brought back to the camp with them. Will had not been keen on that either. Robin had insisted, though, and John had slung the man face down over his own horse’s saddle and led the beast back to camp. Robin, to his own very great pride and Tuck’s eventual horror, had walked.

He regretted that now. He felt weak and ill, horribly light headed and trying hard not to show it. Propped up by a bundle of hides, wrapped in his fine cloak to keep back the chill (it was the only thing other than his boots and his dagger that he still had from Huntingdon; it had seemed too useful to part with) and with his wounds stitched and strapped and wrapped so tight he could barely move, Robin lay under the stretched hide of their makeshift shelter and listened to Nasir and Girault talking across him. Again.

They sounded angry. It was hard, though, to care. To Robin, their words seemed to come from far away, blurred by the dull hum of pain that buzzed mindlessly in his ears. He made himself pay attention, trying to hear what they were saying. As fogged as he was, that was a struggle. It took him a while to even understand that they were not speaking in English.

“ _Limaaza?”_ The Saracen’s voice was as demanding as a levelled blade; Girault may have given his aid when it was needed, but he was still, in Nasir’s eyes, clearly an enemy. _“Mumkin taqool li?_ ”

“ _La adri limazaa_.” Girault shrugged. “ _Al fuloos, rubhamaa. Al fadda_.”

Nasir spat something vicious and vulgar. Robin, seeing the way his friend’s hands twitched towards one of his hidden knives, frowned. He spoke up to head it off. His voice was fainter than he liked.

“Will you two stop that? If you’re going to talk about me, at least have the decency to do it in a language I can understand.”

“We do not talk about you,” Nasir grated. He sounded almost sullen, Robin thought, as if he considered the reprimand was ill deserved. It was a moment before Robin recognised that for what it was: he did not think he had ever heard Nasir sound ashamed before. He couldn’t think right now what the man could have to be ashamed of, but Nasir’s sense of honour was a touchy thing. Probably he was berating himself for moving too slowly on the road, though he had been faster than anyone else. Or perhaps he was simply embarrassed at his lack of manners now, and at being called out over it. Robin hoped that it was the latter. He would not have Nasir blaming himself for the faults of others, not if he could help it. The man spent enough time with his hackles up as it was.

Girault, of course, was not ashamed at all. “A language you understand? I’ve heard you curse and invoke God in the Saracen tongue, lad, and that’s near enough to understanding. It’s a start.” The Hospitaller captain poured a draft of watered ale down his throat and tipped his head at Nasir, who glared back. “Your man there asked me why Bohemund did this. I told him I don’t know.” Girault drew a breath and let it out, sounding displeased. “I suspect he was thinking of the money.”

“Bohemund was?” God’s Wounds, but why was it so hard to think? Robin blinked and shook his head a little. That made his shoulder throb unhappily; he stopped. “What money?”

“Fifty silver marks.” That was a new voice. Robin looked around with some effort. Nasir growled, twirling one of his knives through his fingers in a way that was both idle and threatening, and drew closer to Robin’s side in a way that was not idle at all. Robin felt a surge of warmth go through him at that, a deep and insistent gratitude for this man who had made it his business to stand in harm’s way for the sake of those for whom he cared. Those he

_(just say it Malik why can’t you say it?)_

loved. The young outlaw found himself wanting to touch him, though whether that was to give comfort or to take it, Robin couldn’t say. Somewhere down deep, something in him whispered, _I could, Malik, if you’d let me_ , but he veered away from the words before he could think too much on what they meant. It was his wounds, he told himself, bringing things closer to the surface, sending his mind awry. It would help, though, if Nasir would stop looking at him like that, those dark eyes all watchful and intense.

Pushing those thoughts stubbornly aside, Robin focussed instead on what was happening. Ancel stood by the fire, just beyond the shelter’s edge, looking uncertain, as if surprised at the sound of his own voice. Robin was surprised too. It was, he realised, the first time he had heard the lad so much as sneeze. Ancel repeated himself, as if saying it twice might make it less ill, or more real. “Fifty silver marks. The sheriff in Nottingham said that’s what you’re worth. My lord … my lord had debts. Fifty marks would have paid …” The boy trailed off, then blurted, “My lord Captain, if he dies, what do I do?”

“Oh, don’t fret, lad.” Girault waved a hand dismissively, as if that were the least of his concerns. “I’ve had more squires than I can remember. I’m sure I’ll manage one more.”

“Fifty pieces of silver.” Robin sucked in his breath over his teeth then let out a low whistle. “I suppose I should be flattered. Even Judas settled for thirty.”

That, to Nasir, sounded suspiciously like blasphemy. He thinned his lips, turning troubled eyes on his friend. Robin was many things, and as Christian as his pagan tendencies allowed, but to compare himself to a messenger of God … Nasir shook his head, disapproving.

“Robin, that is not fitting -”

“Robert, you’d best mind your tongue -”

Nasir and Girault spoke across each other, and both broke off, frowning and narrow-eyed as if at some trickery they could not quite name. Robin had to bite his lip to keep from laughing at the way the two men eyed each other, suspicious at finding themselves in accord for the second time in the space of hours. In the normal scheme of things, he thought, these two would have been hard pressed to agree on so much as the wetness of water. Clearly, they liked it that way. Agreeing with each other set them rather aback.

Will could not have cared less for blasphemy. He paid no mind at all to Nasir and Girault’s staring match, only grunted and glared toward the place where Bohemund lay, wrapped in his bedroll on the other side of the camp.

“Judas might have settled for thirty, but at least he had the good fucking sense to hang himself after,” the one-time soldier scowled. He jerked his chin at Bohemund in disgust. “This bastard ain’t even got the decency to die when he should. More’s the fucking pity.” Bohemund didn’t move, the heavy rasp of his breath the only sign that he yet lived. Tuck had cleaned and bound the knight’s wounds, but Nasir’s arrow had pierced deep, leaving a hole in his chest that wheezed and bubbled with every laboured breath, and Girault had not held back when he had cracked him over the head. There was a dent in his skull the size of a child’s fist. The man showed no sign of waking. Privately, Will doubted that he ever would. “Of course, if he won’t die on his own, I could always help him along. Call it mercy.”

“No, Will.” Robin let his head fall back to rest on his makeshift pillows, his eyes turned to the scrap of sky he could see beyond the edge of the strung hides above him. His skull seemed ungodly heavy. Holding it up was just too much trouble. “We’re not murderers.”

“Some of us are not,” Nasir muttered, very low. He didn’t look away from Girault.

“I’ll see he’s punished.” The Hospitaller captain’s voice was hard. He didn’t look around though, or even look at Robin; his eyes, strangely, were on Nasir. “If he lives. If he survives his wounds, he might wish he hadn’t.”

“Oh, aye?” John, who had been helping Thierry and Much with the horses, did not sound as if he believed that. Girault gave a short, unpleasant smile and glanced around.

“Aye. Ask your Saracen friend here about the law of hospitality. Bohemund broke it. Ask him what that means.”

John frowned, coming forward, brushing his big hands together to clear away the dirt before reaching for a cold hearth cake. He peered at Nasir. “What’s he on about, Naz?”

Nasir sent a flat, unfriendly glance at Girault. His answer was brief, terse. “A man shares your food, shares your fire, shares the shade of your tents or the welcome of your walls, he makes a pact. He is under your protection, and you his. To defile that is the act of an honourless dog. It is a debt that owes blood.”

“So Bohemund there has proven himself an honourless dog.” Girault made a slashing gesture, like a man passing judgement. “He disgraced himself and dishonoured our Order by his actions. If he lives, he’ll pay for it.”

“This is a tradition of my people, not of yours.” Nasir’s eyes were narrowed and sharp.

“You think we don’t despise oath breakers every bit as much as you do?”

“I think you _are_ an oathbreaker, may Iblis rot your hide.” Nasir pointed his dagger at Girault, more than half a challenge. “The caravan route past Marqab. This is protected, yes?”

Girault spread his hands, smiling like a fox. “Well now. If there are bandits in the hills, that’s hardly my fault.”

“It is when the bandits wear your arms and follow your orders, you cursed son of a Christian ass!”

The Hospitaller captain tossed back his head and laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. “Oh, but I _am_ the son of a Christian ass. You must have known my father!”

“Stop it! Stop, the pair of you.” Robin raised his head to glare from one man to the other. His skin felt clammy and flushed, too hot and too cold all at once. “Let it lie. It’s another land, another war, and I know you both have grievances but for pity’s sake, here and now, can’t you let it lie?”

Girault merely shrugged, then got up and moved away, joining Ancel who was sitting morosely at Bohemund’s side, watching the painful rise and fall of the wounded man’s chest. Nasir stared at Robin long and hard, and for a moment it seemed his temper would flare, but finally he let his gaze drop and put his dagger away. Girault, this man, this enemy that he knew to be capable of such cruelty, had acted today to defend Robin’s life from one of his own brethren. One act of decency did not – _could_ not – outweigh the years of his corruption, but Nasir found that for Robin’s sake, for this short time, he could be kind. For Robin he could be, not – oh, Allah grant him strength, _not_ – for Girault, Butcher of Marqab. He dipped his head in a small, reluctant bow.

“As you say, _sadiqi_. As you ask.”

That concession was worth it, for the smile Robin gave him; a weak and half-blooded thing, but still warm. “ _Shokrun_ , my friend. He’ll not be here much longer, I think.”

“As you say,” Nasir repeated. He smiled, very slightly, and let his fingertips brush, almost in passing, against Robin’s good hand. “I will behave.”

That made Robin laugh under his breath in spite of the ugly red throb of his wounds. Well, at least Nasir knew when he was being difficult. “Thank you.”

Those fingers came back again, and lingered longer this time, whisper-light on the back of his wrist. Robin felt a low shiver go through him at their touch. A part of him wanted to move his hand away. The rest of him didn’t want to move at all. He shied from that, clearing his throat, searching for some distraction. “I’m thirsty. Could you …?”

The water skin appeared in front of him before he even finished speaking, Nasir flipping out the stopper to save him fumbling. Robin took a mouthful, aware of the way even his good hand wanted to tremble, gratefully letting the water flow over his tongue, pure and cool. His cheeks were warm; he let the water skin rest briefly against them, pleasant on his heated skin, then took another mouthful.

“Not too much,” Nasir told him. “Slowly.”

“I know.” Lowering the skin, Robin handed it back. He looked rueful as Nasir took it from him. The Saracen cocked his head, inquiring. Robin gave a self-deprecating snort. “Nothing. Just wishing that was wine. I know you disapprove, but a decent malmsey right now might help take the edge off.”

“Wine later, perhaps.” In fact, disapproval or not, Nasir would have happily let Robin drink a gallon of wine, if it would ease his pain. “Rest first. Heal.”

With a sigh, Robin nodded and let his head fall back again. He shut his eyes to the comfortless stretch of oiled hide and the white glare of the sky through bare winter branches, only to open them again at the sound of Nasir drawing softly away. For some reason, that made Robin’s heart stutter. Without thinking, he reached out and touched Nasir’s leg, fingers sliding on the well-worn leather.

“Malik, stay.”

The Saracen glanced down in surprise, though whether at Robin’s touch or at the use of that name, that had always been a private thing between them, in such an open way, Robin could not say. Nasir’s eyes flickered quickly about the camp and he drew a deep breath as if he were bracing himself for something, but then his shoulders lifted in one of his minimal, inscrutable shrugs.

“As you wish, _sadiqi_.”

Folding his legs under him, Nasir settled back at Robin’s side, managing with his odd eastern grace to seem as if he were reclining on cushions and woven rugs, rather than sitting cross-legged on the lumpy forest floor. He brought out one of his knives, a wicked, thin-bladed affair, and began idly working it over his small, much-used whetstone. He did that when he was bored, Robin knew, or when he was uncomfortable, or simply to give his hands something to do. Perhaps that was why he was doing it now: to keep his hands occupied, so that they would not touch and linger and give him away. Watching those deft fingers now working steel against stone in smooth strokes, Robin felt an odd pang and told himself he was being foolish. It was only a bloody knife. It didn’t have to mean anything at all.

Robin suspected, though, that it did. They had given Nasir away earlier, those hands, with their trembling and tenderness and fierce strength held so desperately in check when Robin had fallen bleeding on the roadway. That, Robin could admit, had been a surprise. Not that Nasir might feel so deeply – the man hid himself well, but Robin knew by now what to look for, and in any case, hadn’t Nasir proven what he felt with his silence and his slow stare and his snarling in all the wrong places? Hadn’t he even, wonder of wonders, almost even said it out loud, when he thought that no one would hear?

No, the surprise was not that he should care, but that he should show it so plainly. Nasir was never that obvious. Not out of shame, Robin told himself: Nasir held his honour too dear to give himself over to something unworthy, and in any case, what shame could there be in loving a friend, in nurturing a brotherhood that went beyond merely blood? A small voice in Robin’s head questioned that with the faintest of whispers – _Friendship? Brotherhood? Is that all it is?_ – but he shoved that determinedly away. No, if Nasir guarded himself, he had his reasons. This was a man, after all, who had long ago learned denial; he had made an art form of holding himself back. For him to let his walls down so much as he had done, he must have feared the worst. And if he was blaming himself for what had happened as well … Sweet Christ on the Cross, it hurt to even think of it.

Robin told himself not to make too much of that, and never mind how much it went against everything he wanted to do. Nasir was not a man given to talking about his fears or his feelings. He did not bare his weaknesses easily: to most men, he did not bare his weaknesses at all. What he had shown on the road today he would deem to be weak, a failing of the control that was so important to him. He would not thank Robin for speaking of it. Best, then, to be ordinary. Robin smiled, expression deliberately wry, and let his eyes go to Nasir’s closed, guarded face.

“Thrice-damned fool of a Frank, am I?”

Those hands did not pause, sweeping the whetstone over the already sharp steel, but the dark eyes flashed once, quickly. “When you will not be still and accept the help of a friend, yes.”

That, Robin decided, was enough to make a cat laugh. Nasir, who seldom so much as acknowledged his hurts, and who accepted no more help than he must, berating him for ignoring a wound? Robin chuckled, unable to help himself in spite of the pain that pulsed in time with his heartbeat. This – the easy pattern of friendly mockery and gentle bickering – was better than any amount of soft, heartfelt words; this, at least, they could both be comfortable with. This was safe.

“Well, that makes us both fools then. You never did let me see that leg of yours.”

“It is of no matter. It heals. Your wounds are worse. Now rest, or I will think you more foolish still.”

There was no arguing with that tone. Even so, Robin heard more than only the clipped words; there was genuine warmth in Nasir’s voice under the autocratic edge, and with Nasir, it was always what he did not say that was more true. Robin grunted in amusement and settled himself back, trying to ease the throb in his shoulder.

“Well,” he said, “I would not have you think me that. And thank you, Malik. For your care.”

“ _Mish moshkela, azizi_.” Another shrug, one-sided and brief, though a smile went with it, making Nasir’s gesture less dismissive. “It is not worth mentioning.”

Robin knew how close he had come to being killed today. He raised an eyebrow at his friend’s response and snorted, unconvinced. “I think it is.”

“You would do the same. For the others. For me.”

Well. That was true. Robin said nothing, recognising perhaps that he didn’t need to. Nasir glanced at him, caught his eye, and gave him a tight, approving smile – for not arguing; for not trying to cheapen truth with words. That made a change; Rob would usually fling words at anything, talking when silence would better serve, making Nasir’s head ache with his persistence. Perhaps, Nasir thought, the young Frank was learning.

Certainly he had learned some things. Curious in spite of himself, Nasir set his knife aside and paused, giving Robin a bemused look. “One question?”

“Ask.”

“ _Ibn al-metnakah_ … where did you learn this?” It did not fit with the few spare phrases Robin had learned from his father – greetings, words of thanks – and nor was it something Nasir recalled passing on: the words he gave to Robin were usually more civilised than that. “This is …” The Saracen frowned, then indicated Girault with a lift of his chin. “This is from him, perhaps?”

Robin chuckled softly, doing his best not to jar his shoulder. “From Girault? No. It’s from you. Will had just dumped icemelt down your neck and you were trying to throttle him against that tree over there.” Robin gave a wan grin, remembering. “You said other things too, but that was the only one I caught. Why? What does it mean?”

Raising a hand to his face, Nasir covered a smile of his own. Only a Frank, he thought, would curse like that and not even know what he was saying; hardly a wonder Robin’s people managed to find their way into so many fights. “It means that I have a rough tongue and you have ready ears. I will teach you better words, I think.”

“I should hold you to that.” Robin rolled his neck slightly, trying to ease his aches. “It would be good to know more of your language.”

Nasir, who personally thought that they understood each other best without words, only hitched one shoulder in a non-committal shrug. “I am not a good teacher.”

That, Robin thought, was untrue on a number of levels. Nasir taught better than he knew, if only a man was wise enough to see it. He did not say so, though; he didn’t think it would be appreciated. Instead, he made his voice light, half-way to teasing. “So then. Are you going to tell me what this rough tongue of yours was saying? Or do I have to guess?”

Nasir slanted him a look, glittering-eyed and thoughtful. “If you were to guess, what would it be?”

“I’d guess that you weren’t enquiring after Will’s health,” Robin told him. “I think you were questioning his ancestry, actually.”

That earned a pensive nod, serious but for the swift flash of mirth behind it. “This is true.”

“ _Ibn al-metnakah_ … it means son of something or other, I know that much.” Robin’s eyes sparkled in his pale face in a way that Nasir found both reassuring – surely such a light as that could not be so easily extinguished – and exasperating. “Not ‘whore’, I know that one; you use that a lot. And not ‘dog’, that’s _al-kelb_.”

Nasir shook his head in disbelief. He hadn’t known that Robin was paying so much attention. He would have to be more careful. “You listen too much.”

“You speak so little I have to.” Another grin went with that, quick with mischief. “Look at Will. Never shuts up, and I hardly listen to a word he says.”

“Now you use logic against me.”

“Is it working?”

“No.” Nasir moved away briefly to toss another few sticks onto the fire, and to fetch a waterskin from the other side of the shelter. When he came back, he said: “One who has congress with his mother.”

“What?” Robin frowned. “ _What?_ ”

“ _Al-metnakah_.” Then, when Robin stared, “You asked.”

“Son of a motherfu -”

“Yes.” Nasir nodded. “I told you. A rough tongue.” He tipped his head, mock sorrowful, playing at regret. “Perhaps you should listen less, lest my uncivilised ways drag you down.”

“Sweet saints.” Robin let his head fall back and his eyes close, trying not to laugh. “Damn you, Malik. How do you say ‘Shut up’ in your tongue?”

“ _Eskut_.”

“ _Eskut_ , then. Laughing _hurts_.”

“Nah, getting knifed in the shoulder and having your hand stomped on by a sodding great horse hurts,” Will corrected, flinging himself down nearby, stretching his boots towards the fire’s heat. Bloody things were still damp. Much wandered over and sat with him; Will elbowed him out of the way of the flames and edged closer. “Laughter’s good medicine, or so I’ve ‘eard. Anyway, what’s Naz got to say that’s so bloody funny?”

“Nothing much, Will. Just teaching me to swear in Arabic.”

“Oh, aye?” Will cocked a suddenly bright eye at his leader. “Like … _khor …_ no, _khara_? That’s got to be cursing, that does, the way he says it.”

Nasir nearly choked on the mouthful of water he’d just taken. Will’s accent was an abomination to the language, but even so … “What?”

“Or _yabduhl_ ,” Much piped up, looking pleased with himself for remembering. “Means bollocks, that does.” He furrowed his brow, thinking hard. “At least, I think that’s what he means.”

Nasir, appalled, let his face fall into his hands. _Ya Allah_ , Franks. _Franks._ These words they learned, when they stumbled on his name and couldn’t even say hello?

“ _Yabduhl_?” Robin looked interested. ‘I didn’t know that one. Is that right, Nasir? It means bollocks?”

Something like that, yes. Nasir gave a helpless nod. Will grinned.

“Well, that’s handy. And what about the other one, that _kahara_ thing.”

“ _Khara_.” The word came out muffled as Nasir spoke into his own hands, not looking up. “ _Khara, khara, khara_.”

“ _Khara_ , then,” Will said impatiently, reaching over to nudge the Saracen’s arm. “Come on. What’s it mean?”

“What’s going on here?” Tuck bustled over, favouring them all with a censorious glare. “He’s supposed to be resting.”

“He can rest an’ talk, Tuck.” Will was nothing abashed. “Talking ain’t work.”

“Talking with you is always work, Will.” The portly friar rapped Scarlet firmly on the head with the knuckles of one hand. “Get off with you now. Leave Robin be.”

“It’s all right, Tuck.” Robin made a soothing gesture with his good hand. “I’m not an invalid. I’ll mend.” Then, more sharply, “Nasir, where are you going?”

Nasir, who had used the reprieve of Tuck’s interruption to slip quietly away from the shelter, flicked his fingers vaguely towards the forest. “I must -”

“It’s barely mid-morning. Noon prayer isn’t for hours yet.” Robin’s smile was smug, amused in spite of the bruised, strained look about his eyes. Nasir scrubbed at the back of his neck with one hand and scowled, caught out. Damn Robin for knowing that.

Robin said, in a different voice, “Please. Stay.”

Nasir glanced longingly over his shoulder at the sanctuary of solitude the forest offered – he needed to be alone now, for so many reasons – and then cast a resentful look at the others. Robin’s eyes caught his, hopeful, half entreating. There was no refusing that. Nasir sat back down with a resigned sigh.

“Shit,” he said heavily. “ _Khara_. Shit.”

Will grinned wickedly and laughed.

 

Bohemund died a little after midday. He had thrown a seizure an hour before, jittering like a crippled bird and startling Ancel into crying out, but he had not regained consciousness. Once, from the depths of his crumpled brain, had come a random garble of words – ‘ _make one blue, a green house, want to see, papa don’t put it out, we’ll make -’_ – but that was all. After that, he had simply slipped away.

Ancel had wept for him, but Girault had only knelt in brief prayer and covered the dead man’s face with his cloak before turning away.

“Thierry, lad. Get the horses. It’s time we left.”

Striding to Robin’s side, Girault hunkered down and regarded him critically. The young outlaw looked worn and tired, but comfortable enough. “How’s that arm?”

“As well as you’d expect.” Robin shifted slightly and winced. “Hurts like hell.”

Girault grunted. “Knife wounds do that. Talk to your Saracen. His folk have some interesting ways of dealing with pain. There’s a herb you can burn, and take in the vapours -”

“ _Hashish_. He’s mentioned it.”

“Has he?” _Oh, interesting_. Girault pursed his lips, thoughtful, and his eyes gave a sharp glitter, but then his gaze switched back to Robin and he shrugged, seeming dismissive. “Not that it matters, unless he happens to have some. You’ll have to do like the rest of us, lad, and bear it.”

Robin inclined his head a very little. “I’ll manage. And I’m sorry for your loss.”

“What, Bohemund?” Girault snorted. “Man was a fool. Good fighter, bad thinker. May God have mercy on his soul.”

“You don’t sound too upset.”

“Never really liked him.” The Hospitaller captain’s cheek twitched in a wry smile. “He reminded me of my father. Where is your Saracen, by the way?” Girault glanced around. The infidel had been at Robert’s side all morning, for all the world like a wolfhound guarding its master, but now he’d disappeared. The Hospitaller would have felt much better knowing where he was. _Hashish_ , Robert had told him, casually. _He’s mentioned it_. The boy had no idea. Now Robert was looking at him in that stern, righteous way that put Girault very much in mind of David of Huntingdon at his most disapproving – dear God, the lad was like his father! – with his eyes clear and his mouth a hard line.

“He’s not -”

“Not yours, I know, I know.” Girault held up a hand in apology. “ _Mea culpa_. Where is he?”

“He’s gone to -”

“Here.” Nasir spoke from behind Girault, making the man start. He looked down impassively as the knight regathered himself.

“God’s Blood man, don’t do that! Slinking about like a shadow … is he always that quiet?”

“Usually,” Robin allowed. He let his eyes travel warily over both men, ready for the sparks to start. He felt suddenly uneasy, without really knowing why.

To Nasir, Girault said, “ _Dhuhr_?”

Noon prayer. Nasir nodded once, letting the harness that held his weapons swing casually in his hand.

“Sunni or Shi’a?”

Interesting. Nasir’s eyes narrowed imperceptibly. Most Franks would not know that there was even a difference, let alone think to ask. Why would Girault want to know? “Shi’a.”

Now it was Girault’s turn to nod, as if he’d come to some decision. His expression as he turned back to Robin was thoughtful and closed. “Robert. I’m sorry for all this, lad. But it’s time for us to be off.”

“Yes. You’ll want to leave now if you hope to make decent miles by nightfall.” Robin pushed himself up, trying for his feet, but Girault stopped him with a hand on his chest.

“Stay put. Don’t need you seeing us off. Just promise me you’ll bear in mind what I said. About your father.”

“I will,” Robin told him, relenting and sitting back. His whole left arm throbbed in time with his heart; in his broken hand, even the bones seemed to pulse. Tuck’s willowbark tea, meant to ease the pain, wasn’t doing a damn thing. “And we’ll take care of Bohmund for you. We can give him a decent burial, at least.”

“No need. We’ll take him with us. Probably travel as far as Newstead Abbey today, and secure him burial there. Give those over-fed monks something to do.” A sharp grin went with that, then Girault suddenly sobered. “There is one thing I’d like you to do for me, though. Ask your … ask the Saracen here to show us back to the path. There are one or two things he and I should discuss.”

That sounded like a bad idea. Nasir and Girault could not be in the same space without stalking around each other like wolves from rival packs; Robin did not think that any good could come of sending them off alone. Especially not at Girault’s request. He shook his head. “No. John can take you, or Will.”

“No harm will come to him, Robert. My word on that.”

Robin caught the glint of Nasir’s eyes at those words and groaned inwardly. Girault couldn’t have been more provocative if he’d tried. “No.”

“Rob. I will go.”

Well, of course Nasir would go, Robin thought; Girault had as good as said he was a coward if he didn’t. He frowned. “Nasir, you don’t have to.”

“I know. I will go.” The Saracen’s face had not changed; his expression was dispassionate, blank. “I would hear what he will say.” Then he smiled, sharp and neat like a cat’s claw, and shrugged his harness across his shoulders in one easy movement. “And I will come to no harm.”

Robin did not doubt that; at the first sign of foul play, Nasir would likely kill Girault and make a raincape out of his skin, then send both of the squires packing tied face down and backwards over their horses’ rumps.

The thought didn’t bring him great comfort. “You’d best not,” he said, and meant it, letting his eyes stray to Girault so that the man would know that the warning was aimed at him too. “Come to harm, I mean. Huntingdon’s a fair march. At least one of us should be fit for the road.”

“You’re going to Huntingdon?” That was Will, catching the tail end of what Robin had said as he stumped back into camp from checking their set snares, a mead jar in one hand and a brace of skinny winter rabbits in the other. He shook the dead rabbits at Robin, unimpressed. “What the bloody fuck do you want to go and do that for?”

“My father -”

“Don’t give me that. Huntingdon’s not safe! You’re bloody _known_ in Huntingdon – d’you think no bastard’s going to notice the earl’s wayward son creeping back home? You want to end up in the sheriff’s bloody dungeon?”

“Nobody’s ending up in a dungeon, Will.” Robin did his best to sound patient. He wanted to tell Will to shut up. He was not up to this right now.

“Aye, too fucking right they’re not.” Scarlet tossed the brace of rabbits to Much, who screwed up his face in protest before sighing and setting about with a skinning knife. “Not for long, at any rate. Have you at the block by dawn, the sheriff would, and you know it.”

“He’d have to catch me first.”

“Oh, aye? And you think that’d be hard for him, do you?” Scarlet gave a scornful snort. “Look at you, all trussed up like a Michaelmas goose and weak as a girl. You couldn’t so much as string a sodding bow, let alone bloody draw one, and as for swinging a sword …” A very improper noise showed what Will thought of that. He shook his head, disgusted. “And you think you’re fit to go traipsing across half the bloody country?”

“Not half the country.” Robin gave Will his most determined look, jaw set and eyes glittering and cool. “To Huntingdon. That’s all.”

“You’re off your head, you are. If you think we’re going to let -”

“Will.” Nasir did not move, but his voice, low and careful, warned that he might. “Enough. Leave him be.”

For a moment it was on the tip of Will’s tongue to say something scathing about blind loyalty and noble blood and the idiots who thought those things one and the same, but the look in Nasir’s eyes stopped him. That was something more complicated than simple threat; that, Will thought, was almost a plea. It startled him somewhat, realising that, but a part of him thought he could understand. Sometimes, he supposed, even Nasir could get tired of fighting. Even for the things that mattered. But he would do what he had to do to keep Robin safe.

Relenting, Will dropped his gaze. “Huntingdon’s dangerous,” he muttered stubbornly. “That’s all I’m saying. It’s dangerous.”

That was true. Robin didn’t bother to argue. All he said was; “I’m going, Will. I have to. You can come with me or stay here, but I’m going.”

Girault, who had been watching the outlaws’ exchange thoughtfully, gave an approving nod. “Good lad, Robert,” he said, almost to himself. “Good lad.”

 

They spoke not at all as Nasir led the small party back along game trails and forester’s tracks to the southward road. Bohemund’s body, shrouded in his own cloak, hung like a weight over his horse’s saddle; the animal was uneasy with the ungainliness of its load, snorting and fidgeting with its feet. Ancel, who was leading it, sniffled into his sleeve and tried to keep the beast in hand.

As the road broke clear, Girault spoke in his accented but adequate Arabic. “Where are you from?”

Nasir didn’t answer, only glanced once, darkly, over his shoulder in response. Girault nodded. “Interesting. You speak like a nobleman, when you’re not cursing like a sailor. You know Syria, but your face tells me Persia and you tell me Shi’a, which could be either. Your accent could be anywhere from Baghdad to Sidon. And you fight – oh, by God, you fight. But what for?”

Still no answer, only that flat, gleaming-eyed stare. Girault narrowed his eyes and leaned over in his saddle, whispering conspiratorially. “Sinan’s dead, you know.”

_Oh, clever._ “Who?” Nasir’s tone was idly curious, as if he’d never heard the name, though his heart had started to kick hard. Girault laughed quietly.

“Oh, you’re good. I could almost believe you have no idea who I’m talking about. Almost.”

Nasir shrugged. “Believe what you like.” He raised his chin to the south. “You go that way.”

“How did you know about Latakia?”

“I was there.”

“And you judge me for it?” Ominous, cool. “You dare?”

Nasir, who had in his life dared that which would have had this man quaking in his boots, laughed softly. It was not a pleasant sound. “Do you care if I do?” And then, before Girault could answer, “It is not my judgement you should fear.”

“That’s right,” the knight said stiffly. “It’s not.” His horse tugged at the bit, catching its master’s tension; Girault reined it back hard, making the animal arch its neck and snort. Its hooves made wet sucking noises as it danced restively on the spot. The knight held it in hand, unthinking. “Sometimes, to serve the cause, a man has to do things he doesn’t like. I don’t answer to you for that, or any man.”

That, Nasir could allow, was at least partway true. He had done things himself that, looking back, left him cold, because at the time they had seemed needful or even right. He had repented of those things though, even walked away from that life, and prayed each day that Allah would be forgiving. Girault, Nasir suspected, repented of very little. He said so. “You don’t even have the decency to regret it, do you?”

“I am not afraid to stand before God and say I did His work.”

Another unkind laugh, another dismissive flick of those sharp, unforgiving eyes. “No. Your kind seldom are.”

“My kind?” Girault’s chin went up at the scorn in that, his teeth bared. “Who _are_ you? Why are you here?”

“As to who I am, you have as much of my name as you need. As to why I am here – ah, Allah is most exalted and most wise, and His will is hidden from us.” Nasir smiled when he said that, knowing how well it would infuriate. Girault blew out his breath in a sharp huff.

“Rashid ad-Din Sinan is dead. If you’re one of his …”

“I belong to no man.” Which was true, if it came to that; it had been long since Nasir had owed his allegiance to any but himself and his God. And Sinan had faked his death before to escape his enemies, fooling half the world. How was he to know this was not merely another trick? Girault went on as if Nasir hadn’t spoken.

“If you’re one of his, you must know your orders no longer stand.”

“I,” Nasir repeated in a calm and clear voice, “belong to no man. And I follow no orders but Allah’s.” And in any case, that really wasn’t how it worked; if Sinan was dead, another would have risen to take his place. There was always an Old Man. There were always orders. In spite of what this Frank might think he knew.

“Where nothing is real, everything is permitted,” Girault said, after a pause. Nasir blinked.

“What are you talking about?”

“That doesn’t mean anything to you?”

“No. Should it? It’s nonsense.” That was true too; that particular teaching of Hassan ibn Sabbah had never made any sense to Nasir. What made less sense was how a Hospitaller knight from the Castle of the Watchtowers should know those words. Someone had slipped, clearly.

Girault tried another tack. “What’s your father’s name?”

“Mahmud.” Nasir gave the man his blandest look. “Yours?”

“Just Mahmud?”

Nasir shrugged. It would do no harm to say. And the further they strayed from Sinan, the better. “Men called him Mahmud Abu Asad.”

“Father of Lions.” Girault’s lips tightened. There was something familiar in the sound of that, like an alarm bell clanging a long way off. “A proud name.”

“A proud man.”

“I may have known him.”

“I doubt that.”

“He fought at Hattin, didn’t he? What was his title?”

Nasir only curled his lip in disdain and made a small, chiding gesture. “Oh, now, that’s clumsy. I thought you’d be better at this.”

“At what?”

“You’re being too direct, my lord. For truly, mine are a subtle people. Surely you know that.”

“Subtle. Huh.” Girault grunted. “Is that what you call it?” He kneed his horse aside, making way for Thierry and Ancel to move on ahead, then swung his mount around to face Nasir again. His voice was low and threatening. “You listen to me. You might have tricked that young fool back there into trusting you – God knows he was always too open with his heart, even as a boy – but I know your ilk. Subtle, you say? Well, perhaps you are. But whatever it is you’re using that lad for, whatever game it is you’re playing for whatever snake of a master you serve, I’m here to tell you to leave him out of it. You understand me?”

Nasir gave the Hospitaller captain a long, measuring look, then nodded very slowly. There was nothing subservient in it. “I understand.” Taking a step closer, he caught hold of the horse’s bridle, bringing its head down against his chest and meeting Girault’s gaze along the line of its neck. “Now you listen. Robert makes his own choices. As do I. Right now, I chose, for his sake, not to kill you where you stand. I could do that and answer to Allah with a clean heart, for you have earned death a dozen times and more, and that only from what I know of you. But you broke bread at my friends’ fire, and for their honour and my own I will afford that the respect it deserves, even if your fellow did not. Even so, know this: should our paths cross again, should I so much as see your cursed shadow fall where I would see sun, I will cut out your liver and feed it to wild dogs in small pieces while you scream.” He let his lips curve in an easy, tolerant smile. “You understand?”

That won silence, broken only by the horse’s muffled snorting and the creak and jingle of harness as the two squires hovered a short way down the path. Thierry’s voice carried back to them, uncertain in the stillness. “My lord?”

“Go on, Thierry.” Girault’s eyes cut briefly to the squires and the shrouded body of his comrade, then back to the man standing at his horse’s head. His face was hard, like the blade of an axe. He didn’t speak.

Nasir nodded as if he had expected nothing else, and stepped back from the horse, head high. He gestured to the road with a broad sweep of one hand. It was very clearly a dismissal. Girault had seen nothing better in the High Court of Damascus. “ _Ma’asalama_.”

Girault inclined his head, very precisely, without ever dropping his eyes. “ _Ma’asalama_.” Then, dragging his horse’s head around, he kicked sharply at its flanks, making the beast give a startled surge and leap forward. Nasir watched as Girault overtook the two squires and the small party cantered away, the horses throwing up spurts of mud up from under their iron shod hooves.

 

Nasir followed them a short way, to make sure they had gone as Girault said they would. The Saracen was a man who liked to know where his enemies were, and he could think right now of few people he’d less like to stumble over in the woods than the Butcher of Marqab with a grudge. Girault may have saved Robin’s life today, and for that Nasir was grateful – _ya Allah_ , how he was grateful! – but the man was still not to be trusted. Nasir had seen enough treachery in his life to know when to listen to his instincts, and Girault made every nerve he had jangle and snap. He knew better than to ignore that.

At the junction of the forest pathway and the Great North Road, the tracks of the small party turned to the south. Nasir scuffed at them with an idle boot, looking thoughtfully down the road before turning away and starting back through the forest. He took his time, finding a welcome comfort in the solitude. He needed that. It gave him space to think, and time to make himself whole, to rebuild the walls that today had come so close to being brought down. Since Robin had been wounded, he had endured the company of the others without respite, save only for the brief sanctuary of prayer. Now, at last, he was alone; now he could let his shields down and probe the places that hurt.

There were more of them than he had thought. His leg, for a start, but that was only flesh; that would mend. His head ached a little, but that was from a night with no sleep and two days of willing himself not to kill a man who desperately deserved it. His heart … his heart felt bruised and raw, and for more reasons than he wanted to know. Ah, but he did not want to think about that. Stubbornly, determinedly, he sent his mind another way.

Girault would leave this land and take his barbarism, wrapped in its guise of chivalry and faith, back to his high castle fortress in Syria. The idea of that man, travelling with such arrogant across the sea to the bright cities and sprawling heat of his homeland, made Nasir growl deep in his chest and look for something to hit. Reminding himself that it was not for him to understand the will of the All-Merciful did not make that thought – or the knowledge that he, himself, would yet linger in this foreign land – any easier to bear. Nor was it merely on his own account that Nasir felt agrieved. First Guy of Gisburne, and now Girault of Marqab – surely his homeland deserved better than that. Surely.

Still, for a man so far from home, it seemed that he was very much not out of reach. His past had proven that it had the habit of catching up with him. Nasir could not say he was pleased with that: there were things in his past he would rather prefer not to face again. He considered what had already followed him to this damp isle and shook his head, grimacing at the memories. First Sinan, then Sarak, and now Girault and Marqab and _al-Ladhiqiyah_ and what had been done there. Vaguely, Nasir wondered what would be next – his boyhood tutors, wanting to know if he could still recite the Greek epics

_(andra moi enneppe, mousa, polutropon, hos mala polla)_

they had droned into him, or his grandfather, powerful and seemingly everlasting, ready to berate him with the myriad sea of his failings and remind him where his true duty lay? He would rather it was the tutors, if it came to that. Greek epics might have seemed a punishment as a child, but he had done as his teachers had asked and learned what they put in front of him. Those men, he thought, he could at least look in the eye.

As for what else had happened, and the bruises to his heart … Nasir clenched his jaw and shook his head, pushing that pain away. His mind, though, was less obedient than his body; it would always worry at old wounds. And, for that matter, at new ones. Besides, a part of him murmured, this was how the walls went up. This was necessary. Pain had to be acknowledged; he could not shy away.

_Never enough time_. There was an awful vulnerability in those words, a dark and rising dread. Nasir was not good at being vulnerable; it frightened him, left him feeling ragged and wrung out. Strength had been instilled in him from his youth, with no room for weakness or compromise. He was comfortable with that; he knew the rules to being strong. But Robin, it seemed, had changed things, making him forget what he knew, bringing down his guard and letting the weakness in.

What had happened on the road today had shown him the cost of that. He remembered the heat of Robin’s blood welling over his hands and shuddered. Nasir was not accustomed to feeling so exposed as he had then, so utterly without defences. It had shocked him just how much Robin’s wounds had affected him, how much of himself he had let slip at that bright flow of blood and the pain in those vivid, pale eyes. How much he had cared. He had snarled at Robin for that, called him a fool because if he had not he would have said something

_(I love you I love you my heart is a rose in your hand)_

far worse, and far more true.

He should have more sense than that, and more control. It was not, after all, as if fretting like a girl would ease torn flesh and broken bones. Nasir had seen friends wounded before without feeling his heart clench and his gut turn to ice – had seen Robin wounded before, if it came to that, and tended the man’s injuries without feeling his hands tremble and his breath catch in his throat. But that had been before Nasir had come to know him, when Robin had been almost a stranger, remarkable only for his fair Frankish colouring and his noble birth. That had been before the stirring in Nasir’s heart and the slow hunger in his soul. Before Robin had mattered.

_Never enough time_. Nasir sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face in despair. Those words could change everything: Robin had bled today, and there was never enough time. A braver man would find the words, lay his soul bare and never mind what came of it. Nasir, though, was not that man.

There was a reason for that, if he was being honest. This was not safe. To trust so far, to open himself so much, to give so much of himself away … it was not safe. Not for either of them. For so long, he and Robin had been careful with each other, wary of words that might push too far or say too much. Their friendship, that Nasir had come to hold so very dear, relied on that. If what was spoken between them in silence and sign went deeper, perhaps that was best left as it was; understood, acknowledged, and held down hard.

That was not, Nasir told himself firmly, cowardice. It was not even shame. There was, after all, no disgrace in loving him. Nasir knew that, understood it without having to be told. To love beauty wherever one found it gave honour to Allah, and was the mark of a civilised soul. Robin, whatever else he was – infidel Frank, adopted son of a pagan forest spirit – was beautiful. He shone like a lamp in a shuttered room, his passion and his purity setting him alight from the inside out. Even a blind man would have seen that, and turned his face to that light as to the warmth of the sun. And did not the poets loudly laud and happily lament the consuming fire that such beauty could kindle in a man’s heart, and call it a good and glorious madness?

Ah, but that was love from afar, chaste and unsullied, longing and never touching. That was a pure thing. Anything less

_(more?)_

shamed them both.

_Leave him out of it_. Girault’s words echoed back at Nasir in the winter-bare forest, cold and unbending. The Hospitaller captain had seemed to think that Nasir was set on dragging Robin into some hell of his own devising, with Robin all innocent and unaware. Now, thinking of that, Nasir wondered vaguely if perhaps, in spite of everything, Girault had been right. After all, even devils could sometimes speak the truth. Nasir swore helplessly under his breath, wishing that thought away. He would not harm Robin for all the world, not even so gently as that. It was too late to turn away – Nasir knew that, in the same way that he knew that walking into the fire would burn a man to ash – but even so, he could try to keep them both from harm.

He could long and never touch. He could be that strong, for his own sake and for Robin’s. He would have to. From him, Robin deserved no less.

Allah help him, he could at least try.

 

Girault of Antioch, Captain of Margat, was in a black mood. His horse had thrown a shoe in the thick mud of the winter road, Ancel had been snivelling all afternoon and that damnable Saracen had left him with more questions than answers and a vague feeling of menace. Girault did not like feeling menaced, and especially not by mysterious bloody infidels who had no business being where they were or knowing what they knew.

The man was _hashishyun_ , Girault was almost sure of it. He had given nothing at all away, but that intensity was not something that could be unlearned. Girault had dealt with the Old Man’s servants before, in one way or another, and there was an air that was common to them, if a man knew what to look for. An air of eagles. They all developed that, Girault thought, if they lived long enough.

This one had lived more than long enough; Girault suspected that he had been an eagle in his very cradle. No, a lion. Father of Lions, he had said men called his sire. It was fitting. Girault had to admit that. It was fitting.

It was also very alarming. Young Robert clearly had no idea. He would not have been so bloody fond of the man, if he knew. Certainly he would not have trusted him. Robert had always been a soft lad – Christ’s Blood, the mere thought of some Syrian stable brat going up in flames had damn near brought him to tears! – but he had never, so far as Girault knew, been a fool. If Robert had had the first notion of the dark and twisted arts that Rashid ad-Din Sinan had performed and his successor had inherited, arts to which Robert’s best beloved Saracen – _sadiqi_ , he called him, as if anything that came out of Masyaf could be said to be a friend – must have been a party, he would never have tolerated the man to live.

There was, of course, another explanation, though Girault had been trying to avoid it all day. Robert’s folly, his misguided loyalty, could be due to something other than simple ignorance. Something worse. Girault thought of the Saracen, striking with his dark, piercing eyes, his long cool stare and his silence. He thought of the way that Robert had waited on him, taking him food and blankets like a servant. And there was something odd about how they were with each other, something stifled, as if there was a secret between them that they both knew but would not speak. Not even, Girault thought, to each other.

They said it in other ways, though. In those looks that lingered a little too long, in the careful and precise way that they moved around each other, like partners in some vast and complicated dance. It had been in the Saracen’s eyes when Robert had been hurt, and in the way that Robert had snapped in the man’s defence at even passing insults. Girault, who had made a life out of leading men and who had learned to read the signs, knew what that was. There was love, after all – the love of a fighting man for his fellows, the love of one brother for another – and then there was love. One of them was a pure and fine thing. The other … oh, the other made his skin crawl.

The idea was not as shocking as it should have been, once Girault got past the distaste. The Saracens were notorious for their deviance. No pleasure house was without its cadre of pretty young boys; the heathen dogs even wrote poetry in praise of their perversions. They had learned it from the Greeks, it was said, and made it their own. Girault hardly cared where it had come from; it was a corruption, an insult to God.

Girault did not think, though, Robert had fallen so far as that – not yet. He and that cursed Saracen had barely laid hands on one another, so far as Girault could tell – sweet Saints, if Girault was any judge, then the two of them hardly even knew that they wanted to. But some things had their own momentum. Robert was falling, and Girault thought he could say why.

Witchery. It had to be. Nothing else made sense, and no matter how striking the Saracen’s intensity might be. Robert was not deviant by nature or breeding; he would have to be lured somehow. And after all, everyone knew that the infidels were practically devils themselves; small leap, then, to using the Devil’s Arts. Especially for one who had trained under Sinan, who had made an art of making men act against their will. And if that were so, if Robert were bewitched, then there was very little hope for him. He would be seduced, and carry out the Saracen’s will and very likely destroy himself in the process, and his father … Dear God in Heaven, his father would probably die of shame.

By the time the small party clattered into Newstead Abbey, riding through the arched gatehouse into a walled garth all grim in a land of winter greys, Girault had reached a decision. It had not, in the end, been very difficult. In good conscience, he could not simply sit by and watch Robert lose his soul. Not even if the alternative meant a death.

The message he sent was short, and to the point.

_My lord High Sheriff. If you would have your outlaws, watch the Huntingdon Road._

Some things, after all, could not be allowed to stand.

Then he saw about Bohemund’s burial, and getting his horse re-shod. It was a long road to London, and longer still to Outremer and Antioch’s rugged hills. There was a war out there, still to be won by the grace of God, and Girault could not help but fight it. He could do nothing else.  

Because some things went on, even so.


End file.
